Ulalume
by ManitaMuerte
Summary: The story of a street urchin turned legend who is not quite the hero the prophecies foretold. A tale of finding a place to belong and learning to trust.
1. Street Urchin: Part One

I had been doing this for so long, the fear of getting caught was a distant memory akin to other's childhood fancies of monsters under the bed - Unfounded, and frankly: Quite silly. It certainly was a lot different than the sort of jobs I had been doing. I found that my small frame afforded me easy access into windows, and once I had grown more bold and practiced, it became second nature. It was simple: I would case several different homes on a rotation a night for several nights and hit them. I was getting a pretty penny for all the jewelry I had recently procured, and there was no shortage of it here in Cheydinal. It was a nice little town, which suited my purposes rather well.

The past year had been rough. The Khajiit had taught me how to pickpocket, but that seemed to be getting less and less satisfactory. It was harder to hide or have plausible cause the older I became, so it was obvious that I had to start to look for new means of coin. Breaking and entering had been it - and it was honestly saving me from starvation.

I had encountered few problems other than a homeowner shifting in their sleep or narrowly missing a guard on my way out of a window, and I admit I had grown a bit bold. I knew I was good at what I did, and when I was old enough - in five years time, maybe, I would definitely look at joining the Guild. This did not prevent me from exercising a measure of healthy caution, however - so when I was met with a surprise, it came all the more jarring.

It had been a night like any other, as stories like these usually go - I had picked a total of three houses and swept them of valuables before heading off to the final one. It had been a good run - no hiccups, not that many guards out that night, and I had swiped several nice pieces that would feed me for at least a week or two.

I had climbed into the first story window after the guard rotation and was almost finished rummaging through a strongbox when I heard a noise. I didn't think much of it, just made sure to pay attention to it. If it was one of the homeowners rousing themselves from their sleep, then I'd have to be quick about getting to that window. I stood and pocketed a gold ring and then felt a gloved hand over my mouth. I thought better than to scream - but it had genuinely taken me by surprise that I jolted within my attackers grasp.

I felt that this person was taller than me, and by the scent and way the hand cupped around my face - I knew it was a man. They quickly dragged me into a quiet corner of the house where no one would rouse if we spoke in whispers. He turned me when he was sure the coast was clear, and I saw my kidnapper was not much older than me. Maybe ten years tops, but he was still very young. There was no crinkle at the corner of his eyes, nor any line that suggested age between his brows. I could see that, even though half his face was shrouded in mask and cowl. He was dressed strangely - not like any thief I had seen before, but still roguish. Even in the dark, his eyes glowed amber.

I thought to lie, as it was a compulsion that came easily to me. "W-who are you?" I whimper, voice trembling like I thought a normal child's voice might sound like. "You shouldn't be in here!" I pretend to think for a moment. "...B-but I won't call the guard if you - _L-Listen_ , J-just don't tell my Da what you saw. He'll be really mad that I'm stealing what he owes for my allowance. Y-you see, I take it because - well, without the extra septims, he won't - He - He drinks too much after Ma died, and..." I trailed off, realizing the man was leaning into me rather than repulsed by a child close to tears.

The stranger _smiled_ \- I saw it in the way the freckles of his face shifted, and the apples of his cheeks rounded beneath his mask. His voice was smooth, quiet, and youthful.

" _Clever child_ , this man has no offspring. I saw no little bed or toys in all my time here - so surely you are lying." I feel the blood drain from my face. "...It was a very good lie, however." I was frozen with fear. "Little Nightshade, I'm afraid it is you who must be going. I am not here for you, but if you are in my way, I will have to...Dispose of you myself." I studied his countenance, eyes sweeping and trying to understand what he meant by that. Of course I knew what it meant, but surely he couldn't mean - A few curls of red hair shined in the moonlight, sitting rebelliously against his shadowed brow.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a bother - " I stammered, too afraid to move. He raises a finger to his lips as if to shush me.

"You're interrupting my work, sweet thief. Either _leave_ \- or observe what lies in your future." He drew a line across his throat and huffed out a stifled laugh. I backed away from his wiry form, finally finding my will to move. I scramble backwards and throw myself out of the nearest window as fast as possible, guards observing be damned. Thankfully, Lady Luck was on my side, because it was dark and no one saw me at all.

* * *

I didn't sleep well.

The next afternoon I saw a hoard of guardsmen surrounding the place I'd broken into the previous night. A _murder_ , they said - done by _The Dark Brotherhood_ by the looks of it. I feel a shiver run down my spine, and speed walk past the house. In my haste, I bump into a man - who only slightly sways instead of staggers like one might at the rate I had been going. It meant that he had seen me coming and braced instead of moved. He captures me by my shoulders after we recover for a moment and leans down to look me in my face.

"Watch where you're going, _Little Deathbell_." The man mutters, and I jolt backwards in surprise. His hands fall from my small shoulders, the fingers not unlike those of a lutist - so clean, with nary an imperfection even with the protruding knuckles. I see the red curls brush against his arched brows, and my eyes lock onto his amber eyes. I notice immediately they are lined with dark kohl - the sort of thing Redguards do to ease the glare of the sun - and also a trait shared by those who work at night. I knew that from my fences - Many a thief's eye is sensitive to the daylight.

All at once I realized this man was part of The Dark Brotherhood - ! He looks so nondescript - though, it dawns on me later that is almost certainly the point. And no one had met a Dark Member and lived - at least, that's how the stories went. I didn't even think they really existed.

It was obvious that he recognizes me immediately, but I make no move to leave his presence. He could not possibly harm me with all the guard near, could he? I was simply a child, and he a very young man - I can see more clearly now that his face is not obscured by dark and fabric. Why was he here? If he was the killer - and surely, he was - Why would he chose to be so close to the investigation in the first place?

 _Pride._

He must have read the curiosity and horror on my face, because he smiled. It was a sharp smile, the kind one expects from a villain. I see the contrast of the hollows of his cheeks against the rounded bone above, the gaunt features and perpetually tired eyes that burn with being alive. His face is very pale, as well - the only semblance of color are the freckles splattered across his nose. He looks very much like Death.

I am reminded then, that there are no monsters - not really - only people like he and I, who skulk on the outskirts of humanity. I'll admit that I enjoy my job probably as much as he does - though, my reasonings are far more noble - I do it to eat and survive.

He brings his finger to his lips, again - as if to silence my thoughts, then spoke quietly in a voice just for me - "I did not hear you come inside last night, Child of Darkness. You would make a fine sister, one day." Then he sighs, looking into my round face and then past it. "But for now - I leave you as responsible hunters leave small antlered game. Perhaps one day I will be back, and we will see how you've matured in your craft." He gives me another private smile - and I realize I find him strikingly handsome in an unconventional way, like only a ten year old girl can find a dangerous teenaged male - and with an air of mystery he spins on his heel and walks away from me. I can hear him whistle a cheery tune as he clasps his hands behind his back.

I watch him, me frozen in place, as he moves through the growing curious crowd, nodding and greeting those who look at him suspiciously for moving against him. He seems totally at ease - so calm, and serene. I realize I that I admire him - I need to step up my game - become one with my occupational choice as he had. If I was to succeed, I would need to be better -Flawless and unafraid like he was. Stealing was less awful than murder - so surely I could be at least some semblance of the same?

It would take time, of course, but I would get there.

I stare down at my dirty dress, hands equally etched with dust and mud. By Nocturnal, one day soon I would have clean clothes made of the finest fabrics and equally unmarred hands - and the nails would be painted like the noble-women did in the Imperial City. I would have everything I needed and desired - a big manor, a library, and treasures of unfathomable value.

And when this boy saw me again - and I was almost certain we would cross paths again - perhaps he might be impressed with what he saw.


	2. Street Urchin: Part Two

Only a few short years later, we met again.

The corsairs were attacking - and I had to get out of Cheydinal. One day I would return, but my sights were set on the Imperial City - at least, for a while. I knew of many safe spaces there, and a friend who could take me.

I blindly stumbled into my safe-house, and I almost screamed, had it not been for my amazing self-control. It was like a reoccurring nightmare that I often had since meeting that Dark Brother - equal parts fascination and horror. For two years, I had suffered random terror and panic as I slept, images of one man come to collect me either in soul or in oath. Sometimes I took it, sometimes I fought, but I was never any match when I did, even in my own dreams.

"You just moved here, running from the corsairs." He stated, rummaging through one of my chests. I felt anger immediately, but thought against irritating him. He looked a little frazzled, a little less calm than what I remember. Perhaps I had painted him with a frightened eye, but - "It's ironic, I think, but you really should leave, child."

"What -!?" I began, but my mouth was dry.

"It seems you are drawn to Death and Mother, finding a safe space here, above. I'm not sure what exactly that means, but - Oh." He stood, turned to me, and his eyes glowed the same way they did when we had met. He quickly assessed me, as if he had expected me to be someone else entirely. "You are very pretty." He blurts, then moves on to another one of my containers. What was he looking for?

"That is not something I wish to hear from a grown man who has broken into my space." I say, moving to watch him and search for a weapon if I must.

"No, no - I just - You look different. I didn't realize so much time had - I suppose two years would do that, hm? It has been _two_ years, yes?"

"I think."

"You'll probably grow up to be very beautiful woman. That's strange, to be able to see into the future like that just by looking at someone, don't you think?"

"That's still inappropriate to say to a child, sir." I tell him, though not because I fear him, but because I wish to offend him as a means of shooing him away. He straightens, and it all seems too surreal to be reality. "Of course," I continue, feeling sorry for indirectly accusing him of such a sin, "Whether or not I am classified as such due to circumstance is up for debate, I am officially much younger than you. I do not appreciate such sentiments, and it puts me on edge." I warily move around him.

"I didn't mean -" His face distorted into a nauseous expression. "I was simply - I only meant that you - I don't know why I said it but - Look, I am no _pervert_." He stammered. "Beauty does not equate sexuality, especially not in children. That is a philosophy many understand, but do not verbalize, because it is common sense. I may be many awful things, little thief, but I am not a man who looks upon children with desire. You needn't fear that from me, and that is not why I am here. We all must have our limits, and I daresay that is one of mine." He pauses, as if something dawns on him. "Oh, what a terrible life you must lead if you know of the horrors of men who like little girls. That actually moves me to some emotion. I've stabbed many such pigs. Forgive me if I have made you uncomfortable. You see, I haven't been very well - " I answer him with a calm voice devoid of inflection.

"I am an urchin. Of course I would be privy to such horrors, though not first hand - thank whichever aedra or daedra prevented such nightmares. What sort of life do you think I lead? Do you think this is a choice?" I gesture to the bed roll on the floor, and my assorted affects. He shakes his head no. "And while I would love to hear all about your problems, sir, " I say as respectfully as possible, "I must ask first why you are going through my things in my hiding spot."

"No." He says, and he wrings his hands - gloved, now. Yes, he is quite disheveled. He was more collected and neat before. Perhaps the war takes its toll even on murderers. "It is _my_ home you have broken into. Well, not quite, but above it. In truth, I did not realize it was you, but then I did not hear you come in this whole time, and I figured it must be a coincidence, it _must_ be that one tip-toeing child of night - for who else could sneak up on me?" He pauses. "...Anyone alive, that is." He adds with a strained laugh.

"If not to assault me or rob me or...Kill me, what are you doing here?" I motion to my open boxes. "What have you been looking for?" He is quiet as he thinks, and I realize that none of these things are very important to me. I will likely leave here with a half-full pack and nothing more. Let the corsairs burn everything.

"I'm...I'm not sure." He confesses. "I just wanted to know. What you are, I mean. Why you are so..." He trails off, suddenly. I wait for him to continue, but he does not.

"And? Have you gained any meaning from my things?"

"...You're quite normal, actually, despite the odd book far above children's reading level." He suddenly titters, as if what he said was somehow a little funny, and then shakes his head. With a confused expression, his hand goes to his right ear and he covers it for a moment, then glances up at me, as if to gauge my reaction. We are silent for a moment, and finally I speak up.

"...Are you okay?" I ask.

"No." He answers. There is no emotion in the word, and his face is suddenly very serious. I shift uncomfortably. His hand drops.

"Well - You don't have to worry about me. I won't be any trouble. I thought this place was abandoned, so I apologize for trespassing, but I'm leaving soon anyways. It's too dangerous here, and everyone is leaving for other holds. I can't do what I do without people, so I'm headed for the Imperial City until things calm down. I got a friend there, and - "

'No! You can't go! Stay with me. Please? I can teach you how to - " He blurts, taking a step toward me. I move back, away from him. He blinks once, then twice. His face twists into confusion, then stony acceptance. He sighs. "That was - I tell you, I've been very ill. It's like a stranger has climbed into my mouth and taken residence in my head." That strikes me as something very odd to say, but he continues before I can dwell. "I'm sorry. You are a stranger to me, and I - I've just been - I haven't spoken to anyone in weeks, and - " He shut his eyes and turned from me. His whole body tensed, as if he were in pain. "I'm sorry." He repeated. Then he stared at his hands. "Child, do not keep to the main roads. Many are desperate, just as you are. I would not have something happen to you out of foolishness."

"...I did not survive for this long out of luck, sir." He glances at me.

"I wish you wouldn't call me sir." He says. "It's - It's an illusion of respect that I abhor. I'm hardly old enough to be called such things, though I carry the burden of responsibility of the title."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't call me child. I'm hardly one at all, except in age. I know more about the world than some adults." I say in response. He is silent, but nods in agreement. I think I'm terribly clever when I ask: "I speak such formality because I do not know your name. If I cannot call you that, what shall I call you then?" I really do want to know his name.

"No." He shakes his head violently, the dirty curls of his auburn hair swishing across his forehead. "No names." I frown at that. I was not very good at outsmarting men yet. "...When is it that you are leaving?"

I debate weather or not to tell him. After all, I can't trust this man. Something is clearly messing with his head, and I don't want him to follow me. I decide that it ultimately doesn't matter. "...As soon as the morning. As late as tomorrow night." I say. He nods absently.

"Good." He says, eyes suddenly glancing away, following an unseen insect or something like that. "May the Lucky Lady bless you." His amber eyes meet mine and I grip the front of my dress in an attempt to anchor myself. I know it's not a dream, but it still feels wrong somehow, like opening my eyes underwater -

"Thank you." I say, unsure of what else to reply with. "...Then I suppose, I should, uh - " He jerks suddenly as if someone has hit him. I get the impression that Sheogorath has touched him in his dreams.

"Did you hear that?" He asks, fear clear on his face and in his voice. I tense, listen - I hear nothing. "It's -" He covers one of his ears again, "It's like, laughing - " I shake my head in the negative, and he slowly eases himself back into calm. "No? No." He frowns. I strain to hear what he has heard, and again - nothing. Just the wind and - no, it's just the wind, sounding like a whisper. A lady, speaking - but no, I've been spooked, and it can't possibly be anything else. Perhaps I have been alone too long, as well. I'm going crazy, just like him.

"...So, what are you going to do?" I ask, forcing myself to move on.

"I...Have to look for something. For someone. I'm leaving, too. Soon. Not now. Too dangerous, not with what I must carry with me. It isn't certain yet, no. I must stay here until it is. I'm waiting. Three days, he says - that was almost a month ago. Maybe he's just stuck somewhere. In a cave, maybe. Or perhaps - " He shakes his head and closes his eyes tightly, a hand cupping over his ear. "Damn laughing." He curses.

"...Are you okay?" I ask again, always cautious.

"No." He answers. "No, I'm not, but I must be - I have responsibilites to attend to." I grimace.

"Like...Killing people?" He seems almost comically shocked that I would ask such a question.

"No - well, not officially, not that anymore, but -" He laughs a little, "No, thief. Unfortunately my blade has been stayed. And far too soon, too. Why is it that you ask of me such a question?" His clouded eyes become sharp again, fixed on my face.

"I'm just...Making sure you aren't here to kill me. You are a member of the Dark Brotherhood, are you not?"

"I would not answer that outright if I were, would I? You are always free to assume, however." He deflected. "And no, of course not." He shakes his head. "My lady, if I were here to kill you, I would not have made myself known to you, assassin or no. You would scarcely know your own death before you arrived in The Void." He wipes his hands anxiously on the front of his black shirt. "No. I would not kill you, nor would I think anyone would put a contract on someone as yourself. Who would want to kill such sweet corruption?"

"...Well, I've stolen from many nobles. Those that remain might be very cross if they figured out its been me all these years. I imagine they would assume a knick-knack or two is worth the life of a vagrant." I say. "So, there's that."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "Either way, I am not here to kill you, nor would it be me. Nor is there anyone to hear such a plea - but - shh, no. Nevermind." He shakes his head furiously again. "If I say more I might have to bring your death about. And we wouldn't want that, would we, little deathbell?" I shake my head no. He sighs. "No, we wouldn't. I suppose I should leave now. Perhaps we shall meet again."

"I should hope not." I say. "Forgive me."

"You wound me." He grins. "I still think you'd make a fair apprentice."

"Perhaps, but it does make one a bit giddy with nervousness, thinking about men stalking me in the night." My eye is drawn to his high cheekbones again, and how the shadows appear to make him look sharp and gaunt. Though he is disheveled, I still think him a bit pretty for a man.

"I would never." He says. "Rest easy. You see, I would _approach_ you, not _hunt_ you." Ah, yes. That makes me feel much better. I open my mouth to say this outloud to him, but instead I watch as he runs his hands through his hair and grimaces. "But I've already delayed too much. I will take my leave then." He makes a gesture of farewell that I return, then moves to the window and climbs up through it easily, small and lithe frame like a spider against the moon. I begin to relax only to have his pale face appear in the darkness once more. "May the Lucky Lady guide you." He says.

"...Hail Sithis and all that, right?" I glance up at him, and it is like a nightmare, almost - the way he looks, disembodied in the dark, only his grin and wild amber eyes against it. The red hair frames his alabastar skin, sprinkled with freckles - and it is like the visage of a skull in a blackened hood. I know that face.

"Yes, sweet Ulalume, that is right." He stays a moment longer to watch the horror twist my face, and then he is gone like smoke in the night.

I shiver violently, the realization that he knows me - has been watching me - And I feel stupid. Of course he has. Of course he knew _my_ name. He probably found all he could about me when I had accidentally interfered with his work. I am terrified, if not a little irritated. I had been wary, careful - and yet, of course, the man was a professional. I could not have hoped to elude him for long.

That is the last I see of him, though I was positive for many years that he would leap out from the shadows and drag me to Oblivion. As time passes, he becomes nothing more than a distant memory.

* * *

I wake up sweating, the image of his pale face floating in the window moving me to panic. I gasp, throwing the covers off of me. It's silly, and I know it's silly because I'm The Listener and I've killed people and I'm probably the scariest thing in the dark, but something strikes me as so familiar and terrifying that I can't help but feel like running. It is an old fright, and I am moved to feel particularly idiotic, but the memory of the horror is so fresh that I get up to actually leave my tent. I make great strides, taking gulping breaths, and then I hear footfalls behind me. Panic wracks my being.

An arm slings around me, capturing me into an embrace as soothing words spill across my neck and I try to flee from it, I can't breathe and - It's the Keeper, his gloved hands rubbing soft circles into my back, and I calm down. He releases me from the prison of his arms. He knows nightmares, and his ability to soothe me is far better than one who does not. I anchor myself in time and space, understanding where I am at, who I am with.

My mind tries to add on the decade or so onto the face of the assassin, and I am sure it is him - but what did it matter? He was not here, and he did not remember. It would be a secret to keep in my chest, never to be uttered. It haunts me, as he haunts me even now. It is cruel irony that we are to be connected, a conjurer and her ward. Before: An assassin and a meddlesome thief. Always, two lonely souls reaching for each other.

The Keeper knits his brow, and when I see him in the dark, I know it to be absolutely true - this is the same man - and it humbles me to know that I had pushed the thoughts so far that I did not recognize him at all, not in all these years. There was the once, when I had told him the story of my first run-in with the Brotherhood, but I had pushed that far from my mind as well. His death came soon after. And how many years had it been since we met again, he as the jester and I as the dragonborn? How many to this day? Three? No. Four? Perhaps Five.

"Sweet Ula has had a nightmare?" He cocks his head to one side. "What sorts of things make The Listener scared?" I wipe my face with the back of my hand, drawing my knees up to my chest. There is a sudden sobering in the idea that this man was nothing like he was, a twisted abomination, and it pains me to remember. A few years ago, I would have given anything to see that part of him. Now? It didn't matter.

"I wasn't scared." I say, defensively, "Not really. I was surprised, that's all." I tell him, and it's more than half the truth. I clear my throat. "I was...Uneasy in this dream."

"Uncanny." He mutters. "Like a doll that looks right, but it isn't at all? Or a door that's clearly a door, but whatever is behind it is something awful, and you don't know what it is, but you've certainly seen it before?" I nod. Now that I've seen it, I can't unsee it. The way he moved, the way he sounded - the voice would pitch up two or three levels, perhaps to fit the character he created to run from himself - and it was him.

"Exactly." I say. "Uncanny." I sink back down into my blankets, and he returns to his spot near the dying fire. "...Thank you."

"Of course, My Listener. Humble Cicero lives to serve." He mumbles, as if the response is automatic.

Something strikes me as peculiar. I raise my arm, squinting as I raise my thumb to size him up. "I have a question. It's of a personal nature."

"Ooh, Bashful Cicero will do his best to answer!"

"...How old was The Keeper in 4E 186?"

"Hmm? How...Old?" He jolted up straight, suddenly alert.

"Yes." I've obviously made him slightly uncomfortable, but he hides it with an exaggerated serious look, hand on chin. It's meant to be a bit humorous, but I'm too focused to find it silly.

"Hmmm..." He hummed. "Cicero became Our Lady's Keeper in 188, when he was...Twenty. That means Cicero was a barely a man in 186 at eighteen! Ah, but he had been a part of The Brotherhood for two years, then."

"...Do you remember anything from then?" His expression sobered a bit, grew darker somehow, before he plastered a cheerful expression on his face.

"...Mmmm nope! Can't say that I do!" He laughed. "It must not have been very important. Cicero became The Fool of Hearts - and the old one just...Died."

"Ah." I frowned, and he saw it and quickly mirrored my expression.

"What is it, My Listener? Did I not answer satisfactorily?"

"No, nothing." I shrugged it off. "You remind me of someone I met long ago, but I've decided you aren't the same at all."

"Oh? Another handsome red-headed Imperial in Ula's past? Do tell!" He waggled his eyebrows at me and I laughed for a good beat before calming down to tell my story. He listened, enraptured. When I was finished, we were quiet. We were silent for so long, I thought when he spoke again, it was to change the subject - so it came as a surprise when his voice was pitched a bit more normal than usual. It was almost...Soft.

"Cicero remembers that the Cheydinal Sanctuary was... _Desecrated._ It is why he is here. If this young man was a brother there, he would be quite dead now."

"That's a bit sobering." I responded, "He would have made a great Speaker - he picked me out before I had even killed anyone." I regarded my fellow Imperial again and decided that what he spoke was true - if they had ever been the same, he was most assuredly dead.

Even if it only meant symbolically.

"...I think it's time to sleep. The sun will be up soon." I glance up at the sky and see that the night is starting to wane.

"You're right." I mumble, rubbing my eyes. It was taking some getting used to, traveling in the daylight. This contract was best done during the afternoon - but I didn't need to think of plans and sacraments. I needed to sleep.

"...Rest, My Listener. Loyal Cicero will keep watch." It is a comfort to have someone to watch my back, though perhaps not so much the man himself. I am still trying to decide if he is trustworthy or not.

I close my eyes, but behind my lids all I can see is the grin in the dark.


	3. Arranir: Part One

**A/N: In which we return to the past.**

* * *

He grunted slightly as he wrenched the arrow free of the beast's neck, bracing his foot against its side as to make the task slightly easier. The arrow came free with a sick wet noise that made my stomach churn, but the absolute pride on his face squelched down any disgusted feeling I had.

"Did you see that?" His voice was breathless, upbeat. "I just heard him and strung up my bow and wam! One hit to the neck, an hour of tracking at most - and here he is. Didn't even see him. Just - "

"Of _course_ I saw, Arranir. I was right beside you." I mumble, impressed but not willing to show it. He had froze, eyes wide and fixed on my face - and then drew his bow and let the arrow fly off into the distance, never even glancing in the direction of his shot. Then, shortly after, a squeal of pain broke through the quiet and his face lit up. We followed the blood and hoof-marks since, and now we were here.

He frowns at me, though there is something mischievous in his eyes that tells me he knows I'm teasing him. "You don't sound so pleased, which leads me to believe that this was, in fact, _not_ a great feat I have accomplished." He smirks, making a dimple in his cheek. "Tell me, Ula, have you ever seen _anyone_ fell a buck with one arrow - not even looking in the direction of it?"

"No, I haven't." I say, still leveling my voice. My mouth betrays me with an upturned corner. "...Well, I suppose _now_ I have." The smile becomes a grin and he beams at me in return.

"Impressive, right?" He goes back to his task, pulling on one of the buck's limbs to move it from out of the brush it fell into. "- I mean, that's gotta account for - _something_." His voice is slightly more strained as he tugs the beast out into the open. I consider asking if he needs help, but I know the answer will be no. He always wanted to do things like this himself. It was almost religious.

"It was... _Okay_." I tease some more, circling around him. "It was a bit rude you stopped our conversation to track it though."

"Well, one has to be quiet so as to listen to - " He glanced up at me, honey-colored eyes flashing bright in the afternoon sun. "Oh, please. Look, now we have a ton to eat for several days - maybe even a week or more! I won't hear you complaining _later_ , when we're stuck traveling along the Gold Road and you're hungry."

He had a point there, but I wasn't finished teasing him."Relax I was only joking... But, ah, pray-tell - how are we going to carry it all?" He scoffed at my question, rolling his eyes. Arranir wordlessly produced a large hunting knife that he kept strapped to his hip at all times. I blanch slightly at the sight of it, even though I knew that's what he meant to do in the first place. The reality of it, however, was a bit different than the idea. I was always a bit squeamish about the whole thing, and he would always make fun of me and ask - _'Where do you think the meat from the markets come from?'_ And I would reply, "I'd rather not think about it."

"We slice it up, of course." Arranir spoke aloud what he gestured with the knife. Then something struck him, because he made a face that like of a man who had just had an epiphany or idea."What, you think I'm going to carry this whole animal on my shoulders? All the way to Anvil? I mean, I could probably do it - " He grinned, though his eyes were now on his task - " I mean, of course I'm totally strong enough to carry a whole buck all by myself - look at these amazing muscles - but that's sort of a waste of my talents, don't you think?. I mean, how will I reach my bow? How will I run? No, doing that - I might get slowed down." His eyes flickered up for a moment to catch my reaction to his jest. I simply rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. He huffed out a quiet laugh at my expense.

I glanced up at the sky. It was mid-afternoon, but I knew that this task took at least a few hours - what with the stringing up and blood-letting and all that. "Should we set up camp before it gets too late? I don't want to be rushing to beat the sun later." He shrugs in response, one tanned shoulder jumping to his ear and falling. I stare after him for a moment, taking in his now serious, focused expression. He was never worried about things like that. Arranir never seemed to worry about much at all, actually.

I move to set my pack down and sigh. It had been a long day already, and here we had been moving at a leisurely pace. I was anxious to get to the nearest settlement as staying in the wilds always left me with fears of wolves and bears. Arranir always thought that was foolish - the wilds were the safest place, in his eyes. And one could comfortably live off of what one found or hunted. I told him I was definitely not a woods-squatter. I did not like bathing in cold rivers, and I thoroughly liked indoor plumbing - the few times I had been able to use such facilities. He would reply often that I simply enjoyed making my life harder, and that I obviously liked living on the edge.

The truth of the matter was - I did not want to get comfortable. Before meeting Arranir, I did not spend much time at all outside of cities and settlements. I almost never stayed overnight in the forests unless it was absolutely necessary, and I had never even seen a dead animal. Well, I'd seen plenty of dead skeevers before, and a cat that had gotten crushed under a carriage wheel - but nothing so disturbing as watching a deer or rabbit bleed out. I knew I could not depend on Arranir forever, nor would he be in my company always, so I tried to stick with what I knew best - cities. I couldn't let myself get out of practice, after all. But Gods, hunting and camping - it wasn't much for me.

Death was different to him. For me, it was this destination - a scary thing with ice-cold hands that threatened me at every turn. Perhaps it was lonely. Perhaps it wanted an embrace. Personifying it comforted me. It meant I could outsmart it for a time until it was truly my end. For him, it was something that just happened - a force of nature, circle of life and all that. A gift to the hunter, and a release to the prey. I don't know if I could ever bring myself to think of it that way.

Once the tent was set up and the deer was being blood-let a bit of a ways from camp (so as not to smell) I went into the forest to gather firewood and perhaps find something to eat with the meat. Maybe a wild tuber, or perhaps some berries for dessert. Anything.

I returned not long after, pleased with my discovery of some herbs and berries and a few wild tubers. It filled half my basket, in fact. I could cook my own meal in the one extra pot we carried for boiling water so as to not offend Arranir's carnivorous tastes, as the Bomser were wont to have.

When I came back, Arranir was just finishing up digging a fire pit. I stacked the firewood neatly in a pile and then set all my other bits and bobbles near my pack. When I turned around, the half-Bosmer had fire in his fist and it gave me a bit of a start.

The first time Arranir had used magic in front of me, it was a bit of a shock. I had never seen someone use magic before - it just wasn't done within city walls unless you were at the University of the Imperial City itself, and they had big tall walls to block out that sort of view from the public. Not that magic was bad - it was just - surprising. To see fire or ice conjured from nothing was jarring to me.

I had asked him if he was a mage, and he just laughed for a long time and said 'no -' and I was confused. I suppose I never thought about it, that one could have the ability to use magic and not use it. All mages are magic users, but not all magic users are mages. That's what he had said.

I thought it had been a compulsion - and perhaps for some it was, but not for Arranir. He preferred his bow and arrows, or even a knife fight before he would ever even consider using magic offensively. It wasn't that he didn't like magic either, he just hadn't been interested in practicing his skills with it. He couldn't be bothered to be trapped in a school, sitting and waiting for his death in a library. As a result, he put it only to practical use.

Like lighting campfires, for instance.

He also said once, with a boisterous laugh, that he could never wear those dresses all mages seem to have on. I told them they were robes but he still called them dresses. He said they were simply impractical and that went against his every belief. I had to concede his point. Dresses are very difficult to run in.

With a flick of his wrist the fire flung from his palm and into the pit, causing the wood to catch with a loud woosh! Noise. I stumbled backwards slightly at the sight in surprise.

"You always make that face - " He spoke into the quiet, voice directed at me. "Like you're horrified and awe-struck at the same time." His eyes were fixed to the fire.

"Close enough." I muttered, displeased that my expressions were so easily readable. "I guess I just forget." He said nothing about this, just simply cast me a grin.

"You know, I like having you around." Is what he said, though I wasn't sure where such a comment came from. I felt myself clam up slightly, drawing back physically from him.

"Oh?"

"You're very interesting." And then he shrugged to make it a non-committal statement. "I mean, before, when I was by myself, I often spoke aloud with no answer. But now I have you to pipe up occasionally, and you say the most intriguing things sometimes. I like it. I'm glad we met."

"Ah." I said, pulling my mouth into a slight frown. I studied his face, narrowing my eyes to discern if he was being sarcastic or simply genuine in his strange sort of compliment. I suppose I had a definite answer when we lapsed into silence. He was being serious.

When we hadn't spoken for some time and the sun had begun to hang lower in the sky, he turned to me.

"What's on your mind? You're awfully quiet today."

"Hm?" I hummed, slightly displeased to have the quiet broken. It had been peaceful before, but my irritation came and went like a flash. "...What's...On my mind?" I repeat absently.

"That's what I asked, yes." He gifts me with an amused smirk. I blush in embarrassment.

"...Nothing." I say quickly. "Well, just thinking about Anvil. Never been, you know. I suppose after the war, everything's not as great as it was, but I wish I could have seen the port before. The war probably left it in shambles, but I'm still excited to see the sea."

"The sea?" He made a thoughtful face and leaned back on his hands, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "It's a good enough place."

"Anvil is where you hail from, right?" He nodded in affirmative.

"My mother came with my father to Cyrod after they married in Valenwood. Anvil was where they decided to settle, because it's close to the border and was not too out of their price-range as Skingrad was." He paused as if to assess weather or not I wanted him to continue. I gave him an encouraging smile. "...I was raised by her Old Ways, taught the way she was in her clan." He laughed suddenly, filling the silence with a warmth I wanted to swaddle myself in. "My father loved it over there, loved the culture despite never being able to wrap his head around the Pact, and I wish we would have stayed. Maybe things would have been different."

"Maybe." I say.

"...I've never been there - to Valenwood, I mean," He continues, "But they would tell me stories about it, you know?"

"Oh yeah?"

"Moving trees and glowing plants and whole villages hidden in the foliage hundreds of feet in the air... Compared to Cyrod, it seemed like a fairytale. And in Anvil, I would hear tales of other faraway places. The great clear seas in Elsweyr, the red sands of Hammerfell, the mountain ranges of Orsimer... I wanted to see them all - but most of all my mother's homeland. My homeland. We were supposed to make a trip there when I turned ten, you know. So that my mother's clan could meet me." His face fell a little. "But...Things happen. And then we never went. And now they can't send for me because I was tossed around for a bit and they don't know where I am - and I don't know exactly where they are. I wish my parents would have had the foresight to will me to one of them, but - Well, who think about dying young? Not me, that's for sure."

"...It must be hard to know your parents and then lose them." I say, unsure of how to respond.

"It is. It's almost a mercy, that you never knew yours." He said. I said nothing. He mistook my silence as offense, because he quickly added - "I'm sorry, that was a bit unkind. I didn't mean to suggest that your situation was better. It's all around tough, being like we are. Again, I'm am glad to have met you, Ula."

"...But you want to go to Valenwood, don't you?" I ask, unspoken displeasure clear in my tone. Why does he say such nice things if he means to leave? "You want to seek out your family, right?" He fixes me in a stare, and I can't make out what he intends by it other than to pin me in place for study.

"...I do, yes." He answers slowly. "And you have plans as well, when we part ways."

"Only because -"

" We must always look to the future. My mother would always say, however, that one must count one's blessings in the now. You never know if today could be your last. We should be thankful for what we have." He then gestures to me. "So, as I said." I feel my heart flutter in my chest before I actually think about what he was trying to tell me.

Then it made my stomach feel hot and sour - not the fact that he was glad to have me, I was glad about that, but that I should be considered blessed to what I have now. "I have nothing." I said quietly, so as not to sound too angry with him. I wasn't mad at him - I was angry at everything else. There was a few beats of silence before he said:

"You have company. You have food. You have the clothes on your back and a semi-comfortable place to sleep. You're alive. That's something."

"You know very well what I meant. I want _more_." I pressed, clenching my fists. "There is more to life than worrying about securing neccessites. It isn't fair that some people are born without ever having to worry about those things. It isn't right that _I_ have to struggle, that _I_ have to - " My voice caught in my throat and shame made my face burn hot. "...I...Hate it. I can't be happy that I have just enough. I'm angry that I have to even be glad about it. I shouldn't have to be."

He says nothing for a while. We sit and watch the fire for a time.

He lets out a long sigh. "If you want to be pessimistic, sure."

"I'm not pessimistic." I say. "I'm just - "

"You're angry that you didn't have things handed to you. Yes. You're angry because there are injustices in the world. That's fine. Do something about it, then. Set goals. Fix it. You're so focused on the negative that you can't see the positive." I am so angry. He's almost free, so he can say stupid things like that.

"What else can I do? I've lived the negative all my life!" My voice raises. He does not flinch.

"You should use that fire for good use. Don't let others struggle like you did. Like we are. If you see someone who needs help, then help them. That's why - " His eyes dart away, and then come back to me. "...That's why I took you under my wing. You needed help. And me, I was - I was...Alone. And so were you. And it's better now, isn't it?"

"-No, because you want to leave. Maybe I was better off alone." I say, and I'm surprised by my own admission. He stares at me for a moment, then looks away. I obviously hurt. him, but I didn't want to apologize for something I meant.

It would have been better to have never known kindness or friendship, I think, bitter in the moment. I would grow to be ashamed of this thought later.

"Well, unfortunately, things can't stay the same or last forever. That's how nature is." He pauses, mouth pulled into a frown. His lashes fan against his cheek as he shuts his eyes. "It's not that I - it isn't anything about you, or even about me. I simply must go - and go I will. I have to - I need to be with - Listen." He opens his eyes and looks at me. "I have to be sixteen to cross the border on my own. I can't take you with me. You don't have papers. And even if you did, I'm not an adult and can only bring myself across because we aren't related. If you could and you wanted to, I'd let you come with me in a heartbeat. But...As it stands, I can't and there's nothing we can do about it. I'm sorry."

"So I'm just going to be stuck here forever, alone." I mutter, drawing my knees up to my chin. He frowns. "Damned to this existence."

"Only if you want to live that way. Make something more of yourself. I know you have aspirations. We've spoken about that at length."

"Oh, yes. I call them aspirations because they are dreams to me. You make it sound so easily, as if I just have to get up and grab the opportunities - Because my life is just brimming with choices right now, right?" I scoff. "My options right now are to live in squalor as a beggar or eke out a life in the military after I turn eighteen. That's all I have, legitimately. Illegitimately, my options are more diverse - but just as risky."

"That's still something." I frown at his perpetual optimism, even when it doesn't make sense. "It is, and you know it."

"Perhaps." I concede to avoid an argument. He's right, but does that make it right? No. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his left ear twitches and his head and gaze snaps in the direction of a sound I hadn't heard.

"Someone is coming." He speaks, breathless in a bad way. He stands, shoulders squared. I frown, nervous at the tension in his body, standing as well. I go to stand beside him, and he does not glance at me but a hand shoots out at his side to keep me at bay. "Hello?" He calls out, voice much more confident and pitched slightly lower than normal. I supposed he wanted to sound a bit older than he was - if not to make himself feel better, then to intimidate whoever was out there.

Four men came from the brush, blinking in confusion and surprise. "Hello?" One spoke, a nervous but friendly smile forming on his face. They looked unassuming and were unarmed as far as I could tell.

"Yes?" Arranir spoke, wordlessly stepping in front of me. I hunched down, made myself smaller. It registered on some sub-conscious level that he was protecting me from their gaze and I had complied without a second thought. "State your purpose, stranger."

"Well met, young man." The leader spoke again, but Arranir did not relax. "My colleagues and I are on our way to the port, and I'm afraid we've lost sight of the Gold Road. I can't make heads or tails of directions - I don't usually travel like this - but, well, I'm sure you're uninterested in the details. We came from a settlement a few miles from here, out for a walk to take in the local sights, as it were- and we're trying to make it back to the inn before dark. Do you think you could point us in the right direction?"

"Yes. The nearest settlement is due north of the road, which means you'll want to go northeast from here to reach the road itself." He pointed towards the general direction. "That way." The man beamed, and his friends looked relieved.

"Oh, good! Thank you so much! Here, for your trouble." The man dug in his pocket and produced a small satchel of coin. Arranir took it wordlessly, though I could not discern his expression from my position I could tell he was still on edge. The men did not feel wrong to me, nor did I sense that Arranir felt in danger - but still, meeting others off the beaten path seemed strange and surreal. When they had gone, the half-Bosmer relaxed visibly.

"...That was weird." He spoke, voice softening.

"You're right." I agreed. He sighed, tension easing from his frame at last. "You okay?"

"...Yes. It is a healthy paranoia, I think." I hum an agreement to that as well, and he retires to begin slicing up the carcass of the deer felled earlier in the afternoon.

An hour or so after dinner was done cooking and we had almost all but forgotten about the strange brief intrusion, we talked familiarly for a time, speaking of mundane things while we ate. Then we decided to turn in early with nothing much to do in the darkened evening.

And so it was a few hours later in the pitch of night that I bolted up in the tent after hearing a noise. There was rustling, faint but surely there. "Bear? Wolf?" I whispered, panicked, shaking Arranir awake. It took a few moments to rouse him, but once he was awake he was alert. He rose and listened intently, then turned to me with wide, panicked eyes.

"No it sounds like - !"

Suddenly a knife plunged into the stretched hide of our tent, ripping it open.

 _Men's Footsteps._


	4. Arranir: Part Two

**A/N: WARNING - _Canon Typical Violence_ in this chapter! This is a long one - there was no good way to cut it in half. **

* * *

Arranir grabbed me, pulling me towards him in a protective embrace. A hand clamped over my mouth to stifle a startled scream that I had not been prepared to make but came nevertheless, even with my own self-taught control. Arranir cursed something in Bosmeri and everything went silent for a single moment. Then -

A man's hand fell into the tent's gash, and the protective arms became tense and unyielding. I pressed myself backwards, and Arranir's leg went out to kick at the intruding limb. It connected with a hard tap, but then a full head and shoulder came into the tent.

It was a man from the troupe that we had met that afternoon!

His lip pulled up in a sneer as he grabbed Arranir's leg and tugged on him. His arms loosened around me as he reared backwards, trying to pull our weight against him. The man tugged and tugged and eventually Arranir had to let me go to hold onto the ground beneath us. I rolled off of him and smacked the man in the face as hard as I could.

Rage and violence etched into his face, the man reared back only to jump back inside and towards me. Arranir shouted, grabbing the man's arm only for the other's hand to clamp in my hair. I cried out in pain as he pulled me through the makeshift egress. I scratched at the offending arm, trying to rip myself free to no avail. Arranir tried to pull me back by my leg, but I slipped from his grasp. I was thrown to the ground like a used linen wrap as another man went to go back for the remaining youth in the tent.

Heavy hands fell onto my shoulders as I tried to scramble to my feet. I instantly slammed my weight backwards, trying to push him off balance. The man was stronger than I thought, because he grabbed me in a crushing hug and lifted me off my feet. The lack of control of my arms sent me into a panic - I _never_ liked to be out of control - and I screamed loudly - the sound piercing and shrill with fear. This slightly disoriented the man - I felt him tense - but it didn't help my situation.

I kicked my legs out, thrashing in his grasp, knocking my head back into the man's chest, desperately trying to bang it into his chin or nose. Suddenly a loud but gurgled, surprised noise made me pause for a moment, panic and fear making my heart skip a beat -

 _Arranir_.

My friend. Did they kill him? Was that the sound of death? My stomach absolutely soured.

 _My friend. Dead?_

The boy I had spent almost every waking moment with for the past several months. He _couldn't_ be dead. Not the boy who scoffed at my silly questions. Not the boy who stole sweetrolls even though he couldn't eat them and gave them to me instead. Not -

The Bosmer emerged, hunting knife in hand, an angry but focused stare fixed at the man who had me in his arms. The front of his too-big shirt was splattered with blood as his eyes glowed like molten gold in the dim light of an ember campfire, "Let her go." He commanded, his usually warm voice like fire. The slightly scratchy quality had turned the words into a growl that intimidated even me - but the man made no move.

There had been four of them. Arranir had stabbed the one in the tent, which meant -

There were two unaccounted for. I wanted to speak, to tell him this information - but I couldn't. My mouth was dry and words would not come out.

"Let her go!" He yelled, gripping the hilt of the blade in a white-knuckled grip. I began to thrash against the man again, feeling pitiful and small and helpless - _hatred_ burned in my chest after the fear had been distilled. I finally wrenched an arm free and pushed my hand in his face, trying to break his nose or at least make him incredibly uncomfortable so that he would loosen his grip. Arranir advanced with the knife only to be tackled and blindsided by one of the other men, and it almost felt like my _fault_.

I made it my task to break free so that I could help him somehow, so he didn't have to worry - so I wasn't a burden on his mind - And so I used all my strength to shove back the head of the man who had me lifted from the ground. His great barrel of a chest gave me no purchase, but I had to _try -_

When I had finally wrenched myself free from his grasp and fell to the dirt, panting, Arranir had escaped his own attacker, bow's sights fixed on the one nearest to me. I wasn't sure when he had gotten it in his hands, but Arranir was always quick and crafty, and I had been distracted. I picked my head up from the ground, lifting myself a measure -

And without a blink of hesitation, Arranir let an arrow loose. I froze in horror and surprise as the arrow pierced the neck of the man with a sick wet noise. He gurgled and flew backwards with the force of the hit, and as I whipped my head around to follow the flailing form, I saw him clutch at the wound. Blood poured from it and made me look away. I heaved dryly at first, and then something wet began to catch in my throat but I swallowed it down. I looked up, steadying myself.

Arranir hadn't even paused. He turned quickly, searching for the other man that had blindsided him, arms tensed in readiness, another arrow notched in a near militaristic stance. I wondered. in that moment, if his father had been an Imperial officer during the war, and that's why he met his mother and -

That was unimportant now.

The other had moved into the shadows, but I knew personally that the mer had very good eyesight. Wide, searching eyes peered into the near pitch-blackness and watched for movement. "Ula - " he breathed. "Stay down, low - "

"No, I - "

I felt a hand grab at my ankle and I shrieked in surprise. Arranir whipped around only to be hit at that moment by the man he had been looking for. I clawed at the ground for a moment before wriggling onto my back and kicking at the offending hand with my free foot. I felt a crunch beneath my heel but that did not stop the man from trying to drag me into the darkness.

There was a flash from a nightmare I had once or twice - a man with reddish hair and copper eyes dragging me into the dark, very much like this, and I froze with panic. My whole body locked in horror as I imagined it was the Dark Brother come to claim me finally, as he promised, but then I came to my senses. These men where too loud to be assassins, and surely they would be wearing the colors of their group, right?

No. I imagined, despite all its horror, that if it were such a thing - it would be only him - a whisper in the night. As I grew older the nightmares became more intimate, more soft - like the way he spoke to me, so soothing and kind- velvet gloves shushing me as they had in the dark of that house. I realized with maturity that he could have been so _violent_ and swift, and yet he let me go. I had met a Dark Brotherhood assassin and lived to tell the tale - not that I ever told anyone, if there _had_ been anyone to tell. And as such he became almost an imaginary companion - a secret that was just my own. There was a fondness for this strange man that I held in my heart, but now was not the time to think of him. I couldn't even conjure his face anymore. He was personified by the color of blood and the black of night. Of course I thought of him _now_ , but I shouldn't.

Except, perhaps, how I wished for him to save me in this moment. Swift and keen and deadly with a dagger. Maybe he'd even scare them with a terrible grin. _Hail Sithis._

When had my nightmare become a hero?

No. He'd probably want me to save myself. It made more...Sense. At least in my mind. Perhaps it was simply a mechanism to force me to act. I don't know.

 _Little Nightshade -_ That's what he'd called me.

Nightshade was as poisonous as it was beautiful. I had to be dangerous - more dangerous than these men.

 _Fight._

So I did.

I gritted my teeth as I felt my foot connect with another soft crunch, and to me it felt like the breaking of a nose - not that I really knew exactly how such a thing felt against my heel. The man gasped in pain and let me go. I managed to shake myself free and bolted towards Arranir, who was a few dozen feet away. I felt the peat and sticks hurt my bare feet - shoes stuck in the tent - and saw the great big man kick him in the ribs. The mer was quick and cunning, but he had been taken by surprise. With a yell I tried striking the man - at least to distract him long enough so that Arranir could get on his feet. The man struck me back, a backhanded slap to the face that made my eye feel like it would burst from my skull. I fell forcefully to the ground, only to have the man pick me up and set me on my scrabbling feet. Then his fist closed around my throat and I could not even make a squeak of surprise.

My vision swam as I grasped at the offending hands desperately. As suddenly as the hand choked me, the man let up - Arranir had managed to pull him backwards by his head and hair. I coughed and clutched at my throat, falling to my knees. The man slammed the small youth into the ground in response, face pressed into the dirt. He gasped as the air flew from his lungs - and it was then that I saw the knife between us, stuck in the grass. Arranir must have dropped it when he had been tackled. I glanced up at him. The mer's face was etched in panic, but his eyes were clouded and dazed. The man had hit him _hard_ \- and I worried - I worried that -

The knife was in my hands before I realized it.

No one told me that fresh blood in such large quantities was sticky. Hot and wet - I figured - but not _sticky_.

The knife stuck out of the man's chest. He gaped at it as much as I did, staggering backwards as the blood soaked the front of his tunic. Arranir groggily pulled himself onto his hands and knees, then managed to lunge forward to grab his bow. I was shaking, breathless -

"Duck." His voice was hoarse and sleepy, but forceful, face a picture of determination and anger. Without hesitation I did as he commanded. In one smooth movement an arrow was notched, let loose, and penetrated the face of the man that had somehow crept behind me. He fell backwards with a heavy thud and the other man - the man I stabbed - was groaning and gurgling and mindlessly pawing at the ground.

I watched him wordlessly until he went still. The seconds it took for him to die seemed like an eternity. I came to my senses slower than I cared to admit, because when I looked to see if Arranir was okay, he had already collapsed into the dirt and shut his eyes.

A different sort of fear crept into my veins. Cold and icy. The world seemed to have stopped completely. I ran to him, batted his dark tresses free from his forehead. There was no visible injury to him other than some faint bruising, but - his head - _his head had been slammed into the ground with such force that -_

I spoke his name aloud in panic, trying to rouse him awake. He did not even flutter his eyelashes. I shook him as gently as I dared to, but still he did not respond. I checked to make sure he was breathing - he was, thank Kyne - but only shallow breaths. It was slightly labored. I pushed him onto his back and pulled his shirt up and saw the horrifying beginnings of bruising on his ribs. When had he been hit there? Ah, yes, the kick -

The mer's breath would hitch and wheeze at the end, and I knew there was something terribly wrong with him. I stumbled half-blind in the dark, searching for my pack. I had a minor healing potion that could _help_ \- but maybe not even enough to bring him from unconsciousness. I felt fear ebb and flow from my pounding heart as I tipped the bottle into his mouth, then lifted his head so that it would not choke him. He sputtered a few moments later, eyes snapping open but still looking a bit dazed.

"What - " He tried to speak, then hissed in pain. His hand shot to his ribs and he made a sort of wailing noise that made me even more scared.

"You're hurt badly." I say, and I'm reminded of the terrible pain and swelling of my face. He pulls himself up, teeth bared in soreness. A glowing light comes from his hand as magic sets his chest right. He sighs in relief at the healing warmth. His hands ghost over the rest of his limbs before the turns to me.

"Come here." His voice is still thick with what is probably a concussion, but I obey wordlessly, too shaken to do anything else. His hand moves over my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and I inhale a sharp intake of air as I feel something inside the magic. A sort of strange fondness and intimacy that I had never felt before causes me to move back away from him. It is the first time I have ever had restoration magic used on me, and it feels - "Are you okay?" He asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"I should be asking _you_ that - " I say, grimacing, thinking of the way he didn't hesitate, the way he immediately sought to protect me. Shame runs through me like a sword in the gut as I realize I _froze_ \- and if I hadn't, maybe he wouldn't have gotten so hurt. "I'm - I'm sorry, I - "

"It's okay. I'm fine, now. Don't worry about it. I want to know how you are." He interrupts, pushing the curls from my face. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you? I mean, where they trying to - "

"No, I think they just wanted to grab us." I answer. "I'm okay, it was just the face hit. My throat might bruise, but - " I shrug at that. "I'm okay." I repeat. He seems relieved.

"I thought there was _something_ wrong with them." He says after a few moments to catch our breath. "Too friendly. Too simple. We should be more careful." Then his eyes our on our perimeter, seeing much more than mine in the dark." Maybe we should start to set up noise-traps around our camps. I just didn't want to have any false alarms and - " He blinked at me, as if seeing my face for the first time. "...Ula?"

It is then I realize that I am crying - tears are just pouring down my cheeks. I didn't even know when I had began, but I knew I couldn't stop. Relief mixed with terror.

"...I...I killed that man - " I say between sobs. I bury my face into my hands. "He was trying to kill me, hurt me, whatever - but I -" Warm hands stutter along my shoulders, unsure of where to place them or if they should be there are all - and I pull away. "Don't touch - Don't look!" I wail, shame burning my face.

I hate it. I hate everything. I hate feeling small and kiddish. I must look like a stupid little girl and not the tough person I want to be. I must look ridiculous - certaintly dirt-caked and unkempt at the very least. I hate the way there is pity in his eyes or his mouth pulls into a frown. He didn't even _hesitate_ \- he did what had to be done. Perhaps he had even killed men like this before. I didn't know. What I _did_ know was that - He doesn't need this - _I don't need this_ \- We're recovering from something traumatic mixed with adrenaline fueled horror and - I'm just being useless, _crying like a big baby_ -

"Stop." He says, " _Breathe_ \- " And I find that I can't - _I can't breathe -_ and I flounder for some semblance of calm. My chest tightens and I scramble to my feet. I feel like I have to _run_ , like I have to _get away_ and -

My face is suddenly buried into the hollow of his neck. He is pressing me there with soothing arms and I resist for a moment, hands pushing away, but I realize quickly that I crave the contact and give in to it. I sob for a time, vowing to never let myself be so vulnerable again even as I break open. His hand pets my hair, soothing the bruised scalp with gentle touch.

"...Yes, you killed him, but he was a bad man. They all were." I had mostly calmed, labored breathing cast to the side as I turned my head to rest my cheek against his shoulder. "They were trying to take us. Maybe for necromancers. Maybe for something else. I don't know, but -"

"I've never killed anyone before. One minute he was there, and the next - "

"Yes." He says again. "But you saved me. He had knocked me down, and my head - And then you reacted quickly, and you helped me, and - " I push away, breaking our contact as I skittered to put distance between us.

" _Arranir._ " I mumble, eyes fixed on my blooded hands. It's dried, and the smell of death permeates around us. It smells sickly sweet, with a heady mix of thick iron and bodily waste. It makes me nauseous. "I was scared you were going to die. I didn't want you to die. I didn't want you to die and never see Valenwood. I didn't - I didn't want to be - " The word comes out cracked and small. " _Alone_ \- "

"Ula - "

"Arranir, I don't want you to feel bad that I can't go with you. I'll be okay, and we still have a few months time to enjoy each other's company. I think I know what you mean now." He seems confused in the sudden turn of conversation. "No, Listen, about what your mother used to say - to feel thankful for what we have now - I could have _died_ , or _worse._ And _you_ \- Whatever those men wanted us for - necromancy ring or the corpse black-market or whatever, it could have been really bad, and I'm sorry - "

I look up and for the first time I really see him - _really_ see this boy in front of me. His face has the flush of youth and boyishness with hints of maturity sharpening his chin, and his wide eyes hold unfathomable depth hidden in the honey-gold irises. There are worlds there, inside his mind, and I realize he is a _person_ in a weird sort of way - like I obviously knew he was all along, but the weight of him being _real_ and having a _destiny_ and his own thoughts and desires hits me like a weird disjointed epiphany. It makes me feel equal parts anxious and excited. His slender neck gives way to wide but sloping shoulders, collarbone sticking out like the edge of armor, skin kissed by the sun so that it offsets both the dark of his brown hair and the brightness of his eyes. He's almost - _pretty_ \- but in the way that male mer are to us humans, and not like a girl or something. There is a sharpness to him that makes the softer parts all the more interesting.

And my heart flutters and feels full at the sight of him, yet there is a sadness that creeps there in realization that neither he nor I can be like this forever. He will age, and I so will I, and we can't remain stuck wandering the wilderness together. And the moment passes, and there is a dull ache left in its wake. The gravity of him being real leaves me, and he must see something in my face because he reels back slightly, as if he is afraid I'm going to reach for him.

"Don't be sorry." He says, though his face colors pink, like he just _knows_ I see him now and he can't bear to be so vulnerable. I know the feeling. He must realize we are not far apart in age because his gaze sweeps my face anxiously, as if to find something too young in it, and there is none.

He is fifteen and I am weeks to my fourteenth year. In several months he will finally turn that blessed age where he can be free to roam where he pleases in the world, but for a time we will be so close in age that -

His eyes downcast to the side and as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Don't - " He breathes, and I don't know if he's talking about himself or me. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching and unclenching into fists. He looks torn, then, his expression made up of furrowed brow and frowning mouth. He glances up briefly, honey-tinted eyes fluttering over my face nervously. We are so close that I realize he has brown in the color of his irises, like bits of caramelized sugar -

"What - ? " I ask, though the word doesn't have any weight. It's to fill the breathless silence. But he hears it and he answers all the same.

"Don't - look at me like that. Like there's something - Like I'm a statue or piece of jewelry hanging out of a noblewoman's dress pocket - it's the same look I've seen, you know, when - You get wide eyes and your breath hitches and your mouth - " He falters, swallowing hard so that I see his throat bob with the effort. "You study every minute _detail_ and - "

"What?" I ask a bit more earnestly, this time unsure of where the conversation is going. My brow furrows with unabashed confusion but he continues:

"Ula, you're - _I have to go_ \- and you're - " He pulls back, almost stumbling with the quickness of his feet. "Gods, it's like you don't know how great you are, and then you say the most silly things that make me laugh, and you're so - but I just _can't_ \- And you don't really _understand_ \- "

My eyes search his face, which grows pinker by the second. he covers his face with his hands for a moment, trying to steady himself, and maybe to stop my staring. He makes a frustrated noise and he must realize he had been rambling at me, but in his pause I take the opportunity to ask: "What don't I understand?"

" _Everything_ \- the _world_ \- Like you're _naive_ , but you're _not_ because you know a lot about - I don't know how to explain it. Just - Look." He fixes me in stare again, and he squares his shoulders. "You didn't have anyone to guide you, I guess, for years - and for a long time I thought maybe, because I'm a little older, maybe I could help - but I'm - I'm just a kid too, and maybe I don't have the world figured out either, but - " He flounders again, and I blink at him in silence as he gathers himself. "...Listen, _I like you_ \- Gods, I really do - "

My breath hitches and a million things go around in my mind. Mostly _What_? and _Me? But why?_

 _"..._ I tried so hard not to, to take on this role of _teacher_ , maybe, but - I can't help but like you, and this - This isn't the way I wanted it to sound or the way I wanted to say it, but - We can't. I can't, because I have to leave. I can't wait - I have to go to Valenwood - before it's too late. Before I'm too old to feel like I can connect with my family. And I _really_ am sorry that you can't come with me, because I just _know_ they would welcome you like family, and you'd be - "

He stops, because he knows what he's saying is probably too painful to even say out loud. I could be _safe and secure_ \- something I wanted for my whole life is just outside of my reach, and to say it -

"Ula - " My name is spoken with grief and I shut down, I blank out right after I realize, fully, the weight of his decision. He moves to grab me, to make me stay, but I don't. I back away from him, forgetting the warmth of his voice and embrace. I am left empty and cold inside, and I realize it is how I always felt - it was how I felt before, without him, and I realize I will feel it again when he goes. It just isn't _fair._ But I can't blame him for his decision- why change his plans just because he met a random stranger a few months before he realized his dream? I wouldn't stop for him, and we both know it. We know it because it's something we _have_ to do -

But we have this time together, and then one day he will drop me off at the Imperial City, and we will part ways, and it will make me bitter and focused, which is almost a gift.

And I know this won't last forever, and we're only close because we're two of a kind - trying to reach out to any comfort in this unforgiving world. So I put up a wall. I am saddened that I would come to care for someone who must go - but in time the hurt would fade and I would forget much about him.

At first I would think of him every day, then maybe once every few days, and then maybe once a week - then once a month - and then maybe, just maybe - the memory wouldn't hurt at all. Or just a little. And I would smile when I thought of Arranir and wish him well, and maybe I'd tell the person I married about him and laugh about how foolish we were and speak of his kindness and heroics, and that would be that.

But I was here now, and he hadn't left yet, and there were unspoken things between us.

But we don't say them. Because we are too young, and we don't really know how to say the words - and we know that just because we feel them doesn't mean they are words that belong to us. Years from now I would find out that those words belong to two men - neither of which where him. But this is sweeter - something that doesn't need the words. It is simple and different than what I would feel for them. Not so complicated or painful, and I would come to know that this was the easiest I've ever had.

But for now I am nearly fourteen and I don't know these things yet. I only know this, and I know when to be quiet and when to speak. I know when to be honest and when to lie.

And so I speak a lie, just as he lies to himself - that I will be okay, that I'm smart and I was okay before so it means I'll be okay again.

"I understand." I say, and that is that.

* * *

Months later we would finally share a kiss - a first and last - a goodbye and good-luck, and I would feel the grief and apologies in the chaste touch of our lips, and I would feel the hurt beating as quickly as my nervous heart, and he would nearly miss my mouth in the haste of our connection, and he would lift me in his arms and I would feel the reluctance to let me go -

But then he would, and I would feel sad, but I also hoped for him - the way he hoped for me, that we would become something and make a difference and be happy- And that feeling would sort of fill the space he occupied until I no longer thought of it. And then when I grew up I would hope that he got married, and he had children, and I would think that the woman he married was lucky because he was quick and cunning and yet _good_ -

And I was so very bad. I would grow to be thankful we did not age together, because I had a darkness inside that needed to be fed, and he had been too good for me. Kind. Selfless. Two things I am not. But I always took to heart what he said to me that day -

 _Help_ people. Fight the injustices in the world.

 _Yes, you killed him, but he was a_ **bad** _man_.

Helping people. Killing bad men.

So I grew up, and I did both.


	5. Wagon Wheel

"...Is something the matter, uh, sir?"

The man in motley turned to me - panic and frustration etched into his malnourished, freckled face.

"-Can't you _see_!? Cicero is _stuck!_ " His voice was pitched high, almost counter-tenor in cadence, but deep enough to be considered a bit nasal. This both amused me and caught me off guard, as I had expected his voice to be like the many other bards' I had met on the road. It stood as reason an entertainer must have a pleasing voice, but his was just...Funny. Jarring, perhaps?

I shook the extraneous thoughts from my head, focusing instead on what words he had just spoken.

"Stuck?" I repeated, turning my attention to the wagon. The man stomped his foot like a child having a tantrum.

"Yes! _**STUUUUCK**_! It's that _damnedest_ wagon wheel!" He pointed angrily to the side of the wagon opposite to the one I was facing. I quietly walked around it, then whistled when I saw the completely detached wheel lying on the ground.

"...How'd this happen?" I stooped to get a good look at the broken wheel.

"Boom!" He exclaimed suddenly, using his arms to make a gesture that suggested an explosion or popping out of a box. I admit, it made me jump a bit. "The wheel just popped right off, mid-ride! And poor, surprised Cicero crashed right here - _right here_ \- precious cargo and all!" He almost sounded like he was ready to cry. " - It was a loose axle, or fastener - or what-have-you, whichever - Cicero admits he, uh, he does not know the ins and outs of...Wagon mechanics." I placed a hand on my chin, trying to figure out what to do. We were silent for a few moments before I straightened and saw the house and field up the hill.

"There's a farm just there..." I pointed, and he flinched slightly. I noticed immediately and made a note to be more careful to move more slowly from now on. "...Have you asked for help from them? I don't have tools, but maybe one of the blacksmiths in Whiterun proper or one of the farms around here does. It won't hurt to ask."

"Cicero did! He asked the man up there! But _Loreius_ won't _help_ poor Cicero. And Mother can't be left alone!" I moved my gaze from his distraught face, looking for this mother of his.

"Well, where is she? Maybe I could stay with her; Help her to an inn in case it's too late in the evening by the time we - "

He grinned then, and his hand went to place a hand on the box in the back of the wagon.

"Here. She isn't _alive_ , silly - She's been dead for quite some time, actually - so you must realize why Cicero can't just leave her all alone. I'm moving her, you see; taking her to her new home! Cyrod is too dangerous for her to rest peacefully - too dangerous indeed." I nodded. That made some sense. He obviously looked like an Imperial - well, he looked Colovian, which was the same thing outside of the Province.

But...He was doing this...In _motley_? Skyrim didn't have jesters. He was as out of place as he could be.

I dully wondered why he was so far from home, and why he was re-burying his mother so far from Cyrod. Why not just move her to a different city? Why move her out of the country entirely?

It didn't matter, though. What mattered was coin, and I had wasted enough time being polite. Hopefully, just a bit more kindness - and he would offer to pay me for my help. If he could move a coffin across two countries, I assumed he had come into septims somehow and was well-off.

"...Well, at least she's good company, right? _No back-seat driving_." I smiled, risking offense for a little joke to make him feel better.

My comment obviously tickled him, which pleased me. Death should always be taken lightly - or at least, mourning. The body was still here, but spirits are gone. I never dwelled on it and thought others shouldn't either. Besides: Laughter was what separated us from the dead.

"- Oh! You jest! Because she's - ha! She's _dead._ " We both stood, smiling like idiots at each other for a moment. Something was... _Familiar_ about this man, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. Maybe he had entertained at a party I had crashed. Maybe I had seen him in one of my old haunts. It didn't matter.

I sobered and cleared my throat."So, this farmer - Why won't he help you? Doesn't he have the means?" The man suddenly had a petulant expression.

"Cicero knows he does," He crossed his arms. "But he won't help me for - for - Gods know _what_ reason!" The red-head clasped his hands together in a begging gesture. "Please, sweet stranger, could you convince him to help poor Cicero? Look! I'll even reward you with shiny coin!"

Ah. Septims. Finally.

"Coin?" I smiled again, then shrugged, pretending that this was a secondary motivator. "Ah, sure, why not?" The man positively lit up. I did so _adore_ people easy to please.

"Oh, stranger! Cicero cannot thank you enough!" I worried for a moment that he would try to embrace me in his sudden surge of gratitude, but he didn't. "Cicero has faith in you, kind lady. You have a pretty face he'll be unable to resist! Bat an eyelash or two and he'll be _sure_ to help!" I was flattered, truly, but there was something alarming about a sudden compliment that I was never used to.

"I dunno about that -" The smile widened into a grin, nervous but genuine - "But I'm sure he'll see the error of his ways one way or the other. I'll be right back - don't worry; ah, _Cicero_ , was it?"

"Yes!" And with this he twisted his body into a violent bow, his forehead nearly touching his legs. "Cicero, Fool of Hearts and jovial jester at your service!"

I couldn't help but keep smiling at the novelty of meeting a jester in person. I had seen a few entertainers here and there in the Imperial City and one occasionally keeping court at a lord or lady's party (Granted, I was usually busy blending in and stealing valuables), but never just at random, in public. He seemed very married to his act. I respected that.

Even if he was Void touched or one of Sheogorath's afflicted, I still found him to be a delightful novelty. And it helped he was paying me for a good deed.

I trudged up the hill, trying my best to appear a bit more soft-eyed and nervous than I was. What was the name Cicero had said? Lorieus? Yes. I didn't have to search long, as the man of the house was sitting on his porch, drinking from a tankard.

"Loreius?" I asked, making my voice sound more girlish than the usual smoky tone it naturally fell into. He glanced up at me, surprised at my sudden appearance, then he groaned.

"Oh, no. Not another one. What is it you want?"

"That um, merryman needs your help down there." The balding Imperial scoffed at me.

"Yeah? And he told you that sob story about his mother too? _Coffin_ my eye. I bet he's smuggling contraband in there. No. I'm not helping him. I'm not going to get mixed up in that." I resisted the urge to cross my arms - but that was seen as very defensive or aggressive, and I wanted him to like me.

"Wow, I never thought of that." I laughed nervously, "So...The sooner he leaves the better, right?"

"You got that right!"

"Ah, that's the unfortunate bit, I'm afraid. _His wagon is broken._ I saw a guard wandering around though, maybe we can go get him?" I feigned having a sudden, embarrassing epiphany. "Oh, but...If he actually _does_ have contraband in his crate, well...It's a bit suspicious, him breaking down conveniently in front of your farm. The guard might come check out your home, too." I clucked my tongue at that, and Loreius paled.

"By Shor, you're right." He gnawed on his lip for a moment, then shook his head violently. "No. I'm not taking that chance. I have nothing to hide! He can go to some other farm or take a quick trek up to the proper hold. He's being a fool, not seeking help elsewhere. What's going to happen to the coffin, if it _actually_ has a corpse in it? Nothing. What, is his mother going to get up and wander off?" I let out a surprised, amused laugh that caught him off guard. He narrowed his eyes at me. "...And how do I know you're not working with him?"

"Look, maybe I can approach this some other way. We're all Imperials here. We love coin - a cultural stereotype and _truth_ to be sure! How much do you want?" I pretended to dig in my pocket, hoping that whatever Cicero payed me would replenish or even exceed whatever I had to pony up here.

"You think this is about _money_? The answer is _no,_ girl. The man looks like a nut as well. I don't need to get mixed up in that."

I resisted the urge to let out a frustrated huff. This was a lot harder than I thought.

"...Can I appeal to your sense of community? Morality? He's a man in need, villain or not. A mentally disabled person, if we go by your opinion of him. What sort of man are you to deny him? ...In _Mara's_ eyes -"

"Look, The answer is no. Final time I'll tell you. You come to my house and try to tell me what to do? Get off my property or I'll call the guard." He stood and entered his house in a huff, slamming the door behind him. I let out a deflated sigh and made the shameful trek back. The jester must have seen my face because he wailed immediately.

"What! The farmer on his farm _rejected_ the beautiful stranger's pleas!? What a cold man! What a -"

"The man was pretty cross with me for even being there. I tried to appeal to him, but nothing worked, I'm afraid." I moved and leaned against one of the many boulders littering the sides of the cobble road, probably breaks from all the rocky outcroppings in the area. Defeated, Cicero sat next to me on the grass.

"Oh, stranger, I was so _sure_ he'd listen to you." I looked at him and I sighed.

It was easier appearing in public as Ula the Dragonborn, what with my covered face and intimidating presence. Being myself, Ula the thief, was a lot harder. I really did not want to have to pull that card, however. It would be just my luck he saddled me with some sort of quest if I walked up there in all my pretend glory.

"Me too." He looked positively crushed, and I felt the tiniest tinge of guilt naw at my insides. "...Look, I'm sure I can still help. I won't give up, okay? I don't want you to stay out here all night. There are lots of wolf sightings around here." I glanced up at the sky. It was beginning to grow late in the day, almost evening time.

I made some quick calculations. I couldn't make it to Whiterun proper _and back_ without it already being dark. I couldn't, in good conscience, fix the wagon in the dark even with the jester holding a torch for me. I didn't want to miss something and have the wheel pop off a few measures down the road.

And I could't take him back to Breezehome without him possibly knowing I was the Dragonborn - if he even knew about that whole nonsense. Doubtful, but not a risk I wanted to take. Besides, he wouldn't leave his mother's remains - and they probably wouldn't let the wagon through the gates anyhow. And I didn't want to risk wasting time seeing if some other farmer would help us. Loreius farm was the most isolated farm, just north-northwest from Whiterun hold itself. I could see Dragonsreach's silhouette darkening against the reddening sky.

I was running out of time, just sitting here.

I made an executive decision. I wanted that coin.

"...I'll get the tools." I said, pushing off of the rock into a standing position. The jester popped up like a jack in the box.

"Uh, haha, how - sweet stranger?"

"...Don't worry about it." I waved dismissively. "You just stay here, make sure you're ready to leave _as soon_ as I'm done fixing your wheel, alright?"

"Oh, yes! Cicero will be so quick and speedy!"

I turned to him. "How long have you been out here?" If I was going to steal from the Loreius's, I was going to clean them out - the miserable fool. I gave the jester a bit of a once over. He looked a bit gaunt and willowy. "...Have you eaten?"

"Cicero has been out here all morning and afternoon." His bottom lip stuck out briefly, and he looked the absolute picture of misery. " But - Cicero _has_ eaten. Why, did the kind stranger want to offer food to, _haha_ , skinny Cicero?" He grinned then, poking himself in the stomach. "I assure you, Cicero eats well and often - he just can't put on weight - though he would never turn down a sweetroll!"

I shot him a quick grin. "Alright. Tools and sweetrolls - coming right up." I glanced up the hill and saw that Loreius was busy tending crops in the field, glancing our way every little while. A woman - I assumed his wife - was with him. If I could sneak up and around and pick the lock on their door, I could probably sweep their home without anyone being the wiser. I marched up along the path for a few steps, then crossed diagonally at a spot where the dirt rose up higher, irregularly set the way it was. From there I slunk across the back of the house and watched the Lorieus's tend their field.

I needed this distraction, today. As odd as the situation was - at least I wasn't bored.

I waited until the couple was on the far end of their field before attempting the lock. When I got inside, I searched for the tools first. It was a modest house with a fireplace as the main feature.

Nordic architecture sure is...Humble.

I moved inside like a shadow, checking inside chests and drawers, taking coins and easily pocketed valuables. My heart pounded in my ears, that delightful mixture of pressure and adrenaline painting my veins. I finally found the tools lying near a pair of old work boots. I wrapped them up and put them in my pack. I was more than a little relieved. It was just my luck that they would've been somewhere in a shed or barn, so I thanked Sithis for little favors.

On the way out I snagged two sweetrolls, sitting in a pan near the little kitchen the house boasted. I carefully crept out, peeking to make sure the couple was still oblivious to my break-in. I moved slowly at first, but when I was sure I was far enough for proper deniability, I sprinted across the expanse of grass until I arrived at the jester's side, clutching my pack in my arms and panting.

"Ooh, sneaky little deathbell, aren't you, stranger?" Cicero purred as I laid the tools out on the grass. I glanced up at him, a smirk on my face.

"Let's keep this a secret between us, hm?" He made a motion across his mouth, as if he were buttoning it closed. I straightened, and the red-headed Imperial hoisted up the wagon wheel from its resting place on the ground. I had expected to have to help him - the man's frame was thin - but he had done it all by himself. He was a lot stronger than he looked. I examined the wheel closely, assessing the damage - then I moved on to the coupling on the axle.

"...Huh. Looks like it just got loose and spun right off, like you said. Lucky you that nothing was damaged or bent. A quick fix, really."

"...And, pray tell, how does the pretty stranger have such mechanical knowledge?" I shot him a grin over my shoulder, then returned to the task at hand.

"Well, a girl's gotta have _some_ secrets to herself, doesn't she?"

"Cicero is quite curious. Perhaps you could whisper it into his ear?" I glanced up at him and regarded him for a moment.

"Well, I guess I can tell you. I'm a little rusty at this particular avenue, but - I know _many_ things. A jack of all trades, really. I had to be."

"Had to?" He asked. I reasoned I would never see this man again, so I told him the truth.

"As a street urchin, you get used to doing a bunch of strange and little odd jobs for coin. And if we're keeping secrets, I used to run...Ah, a certain form of job that involved making sure wagons broke down in strange places so we could...Ah, _hold_ onto certain people's valuables." Cicero's ever present smile became a grin.

"Ooh, the lovely stranger is just full of surprises, isn't she?" He giggled. "Cicero won't tell. Your secrets are safe with me."

I put the wagon wheel on the axle, keeping mind of the waning sun. I could talk and work, though, so it wasn't a problem. I did, however, accidentally pinch my finger once.

"Ah, Sithis!" I hissed, putting my finger briefly in my mouth to soothe the pain. I felt Cicero watching me intensely, and for the first time I got a strange vibe from him. It wasn't an _unpleasant_ vibe, but it certainly was strong. His eyes were too intelligent to be in the face of a fool. I continued my work, tightened the wheel to the setting with one of the tools, making sure it was secure before standing up.

"I never got your name, kind stranger." He said, almost all but level and calm.

"...You don't need it." I told him, slightly uneasy. He seemed amused at this, and it was only then that I realized the jester could be more than what he seemed. Why would he wear his motley when he wasn't performing? An eccentric, maybe? Or suppose he _did_ have contraband?

Oh, but the coin. Shiny, clinky coin.

I forgot all my uneasiness in that instant.

He produced a large bag of them, probably five-hundred or _more_ for my simple deed. I almost protested that it was too much but decided against it, mentally berating myself for almost being an idiot.

"A reward, for your kindness, and for your - _intriguing mystique_." He set it in my hands and I greedily took it, ignoring the latter part of his comment. I was used to vague flirtation and simply didn't care for it.

"Thank you. It really was no problem. Oh!" I reached into my pack and produced a wrapped sweetroll for him. "I snagged one of these while I sought to uh, permanently _borrow_ these tools. Take it for the road." He lit up again in a way that reminded me of a child. A man that easy to please was categorically adorable - in my opinion - but I didn't dwell on it.

"Oh! For me? You think so selflessly, stranger. I thank you - but more! Not just me! My mother thanks you." I laughed at the absurdity of his parting words as he climbed back into the driving seat. "Perhaps Cicero will see the beautiful stranger again. I can only _hope_ , at least." He took a bite from the sweetroll as he said this, then he turned and grabbed the reigns. He swallowed the bite of dessert before addressing me again. "It is rare to be served with such kindness on the cold and lonely road. Cicero will remember this day forever and ever."

"Please, just be careful. Hopefully this sort of thing doesn't happen again. I wish you luck." I placed a hand on the crate and the man visibly stiffened, but I gave him a lazy smile and he relaxed a bit. "Safe travels, ma'am." I patted the crate and moved away from it. A strange smile settled onto the man's face before he turned away for the final time.

This little adventure had been the most I had smiled in months, I realized.

By the time he was a speck in the distance, I was already a quarter of the way back to Whiterun proper, cutting through the plains and hills. I doubted the Lorieus's even knew what happened. I later found out that they _did_ report a strange Imperial couple loitering along on their road, and some missing tools.

I hoped the guard scoffed and asked if I stole sweetrolls too. That would be ironic. The jester would have seen the humour in that, I'm sure.

But they wouldn't find me - I was the masked Dragonborn, not a pretty Imperial woman.

By the next week, I had all but pushed out of my mind my run-in with Cicero, The Fool of Hearts.

Until we met again.

* * *

 **A/N: Feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)**


	6. Welcome To The Family

The visage of Sithis was a beautiful masterpiece made of stained glass. The warmth of the blood-red light enveloped me as I stared into the hollow eye sockets of the skull depicted, framed by tendrils and horns. They were empty and devoid of color - like the Void.

I had often wondered if Sithis ever appeared as a man, as he had once to The Night Mother. I wondered how he might have looked. Surely he was not this visage of Death? Had he made himself flesh, conjured a handsome face to beget her with the Five Children?

And did he have black eyes as empty and cold as The Void? As empty as this: The eyes of the visage of The Reaper - here immortalized in glass? Was his hair like The Void as well, devoid of any color? Or was it the shade he most favored - the same as a splash of blood on fresh snow? Was his skin the ashy tone of the Dunmer, or was it the lily-white of bleached bone?

I shuddered to think of the beauty of such a creature. And yet - I understood that he was no man, he was the personification of The Void, and that is why I cared for him. He was something as much as he was nothing. A sentient force of chaos and change.

I wanted to be a force of change. I did not have the strength to be that force - not yet.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A silvery voice spoke beside me. I jumped at the sudden noise, so unused to the silent footsteps of my so-called siblings.

I turned to the sound, meeting the amused gaze of an Imperial man with auburn hair. The novelty of such a sight was only overshadowed by the other novelty of meeting a jester; He happened to be dressed like one. A costume for a contract or simply an eccentric love for motley? I felt my eyes trail up to his hat as he spoke to me more, and I almost missed the words. "Tsk tsk, sister." He purred, "If you cannot even tell foe from family, how long will you last?"

"...I'm trained as a thief, not a rogue. I've never had to listen for silent footfalls, only those of the unsuspecting homeowners and guards. Forgive me for my greenness." I answered defensively, my eyes barely meeting his. I jumped again in surprise as he made some sort of shrill noise, one that denoted recognition.

"Oh! It's you! The kind traveler who helped Poor Cicero fix his wagon! I never forget a face, especially one as pretty as yours, stranger." I furrowed my brow, looking him over more completely.

"We've...Met?" I asked distractedly. I searched my brain for a memory and managed to dredge one up. Oh - Yes, of course! It was months and months ago - a strange jester and his mother's coffin. He had offered me coin, and I had stolen away into the farmer's house when he refused to help me. Borrowed his tools. I had sent the jester on his way with a sweetroll in hand. It was a good memory.

He seemed even more sinister in the red light of Sithis's gaze, but it wasn't off-putting in the slightest. Where the daylight had made him seem foolish and almost gaunt, the shadows highlighted the hollows of his face. In the low light, he looked sharp featured and focused.

Perhaps he was just more comfortable here, and simply carried himself differently.

"...You've _forgotten_ poor Cicero, haven't you?" He pouted, bottom lip sticking out. I made myself smile at him, which seemed to catch him by surprise. It was almost comical how quickly his expression changed.

"I haven't. It isn't every day I meet jesters on the road - especially not any carrying a coffin in tow."

"Oh! Stranger! You _do_ remember humble Cicero!" He clapped excitedly. There was a brief moment of panic as I thought he might try to embrace me, but he didn't. "Fancy meeting you again! It is fate. Cicero thanks you again for helping me - and more! Helping Mother! Our Mother."

"I wouldn't call it fate." I said absently, gazing back to the stained-glass art piece.

So...The coffin had held The Night Mother?

All at once I understood.

"...This piece. It makes me feel warm, like when I touched the box that contained The Night Mother's coffin that day." I mumbled, "...And to answer your question - It is beautiful."

"Hmm?" I caught his eyes flickering from my face to the art piece. " - Oh, yes - _The window_." His perpetual grin widened and he let out a giggle. "It is! Yes, indeed! Quite beautiful!"

I hadn't spoken much to anyone in the few months I had gone missing from the Thieves Guild, so it was a treat to have such an eager ear.

"...I always like to think I have an eye for craftsmanship." I rambled, "And this piece is masterful - a Redguard glass technique, by the looks of it. Much more precise than the blown glass bottles made by the Khajiit. I like the swirls of color and the organic shapes that the Khajiit create, but the Redguard technique is very awe-inspiring in it's own right. Particular, and practiced. A technical feat to say at the least. I wonder who would commission such a piece. It certainly must have cost a lot."

"Oooh, a pretty greenie, and smart too." I cut my eyes across his features, feeling my stomach grow hot and sour. "- It is rare both exist at once!"

"That's a bit distasteful, you know." He suddenly backpedaled, and I was surprised to see him blush ever so slightly. I followed him, occupying his personal space. "- You're surprised I'm both?" I asked, accusation very clear in my voice. "How do you think I got this far? Why do you think I've come here?"

"No no no, I meant it as a _compliment_ , dear sister!" He squeaked, almost comically devastated.

"I know." I answered gruffly, crossing my arms. "I know you _think_ that it was a compliment, at least." He knitted his brows together, trying to follow my train of thought. "That doesn't mean it was. I am, after all, a sum of my parts."

He watched me carefully for a moment, then sighed.

"Curious. You are very difficult to read. I suppose that is a good thing in our line of work, eh?"

"Are you unused to women who are unphased by flattery?" He moved away from me a little bit, clearly nervous.

"Yes, actually - well, _most_ people Cicero has encountered enjoy flattery. It is not a trait shared only by the fairer sex." He tittered.

I shrugged lazily. "I am not most people, jester. I do not enjoy flattery." He moved closer once more, expression sobering a bit at the edges.

"No? Why not? Everyone likes a compliment once in awhile."

"I find it to be hollow and baseless - a tool used to worm a way into a false sense of comradre. No offense." He studied me for a beat, silent. Something in his eyes darkened for a moment, but then that spark of madness ignited the amber irises once more.

"Then, what is it that you enjoy, hm?" He asked, voice level and almost serious. Had he not been Void-touched, then I might have mistaken the tone for some strange sort of vague flirtation. "After all, we are family now - And I would love to get to know you better."

"I enjoy people who judge me by my actions." I answered. "That way one is not blinded with useless vanity." He simply stared at me blankly in response. It was after several moments of silence that a grin suddenly spread across his face.

"...You know, Cicero never did get the lovely stranger's name. You insisted on _mystique_ , remember? Now that we are siblings in Sithis, perhaps now you will indulge curious Cicero?" I thought about making one up on the spot - but saw no harm in giving him my real name. No one knew about that Dragonborn business, and this organization was very much unlike the Thieves Guild. This was a essentially _cult_ \- something you were a part of for life. And I so deeply wanted this place to be somewhere I could just be myself.

"...Ulalume." I responded. He sucked in a breath, as if he were taking the word into his lungs and it smelled of something he enjoyed.

"Ulalume." He repeated, letting my name pour from his mouth like smoke. "Ooo-Lah-Looooommm." His gaze fixated on my face. "...Sounds like a cry from The Void. What a beautiful name, sister." He all but purred, drawing into my personal space even more. I hadn't even realized we were almost touching.

I avoided his eyes and instead went back to Sithis's Visage of The Reaper. I was suddenly uncomfortable, somehow feeling both flattered and invaded.

 _Unsettled_. That was the word. He had unsettled me.

"Thank you." I mumbled, drawing my arms around myself to makeshift some barriers between us. "I've heard similar sentiments before, but none so singularly...Enraptured as yours." His mouth was a constant smile, weather it was a smirk or a full blown grin.

"...Cicero likes you. Oh, yes! Cicero likes you indeed. "

"You think so?" I glanced at him. "Only now, then. I tend to not be so agreeable the longer I've known someone. I confess that my idiosyncrasies are not often endearing." I found this ironic, suddenly, as most assuredly this man had often found himself being accused of annoying or unsavory with this persona he so adored - the voice alone might be considered grating, at the least.

"- No, no - Ula and Cicero will be great friends! I can tell!"

"How's that?" I asked, only slightly intrigued. It was more of a polite gesture than actual want of knowledge. He appraised me with his eyes - perhaps the only man to do so in a long time without a lustful overture to the action. It was more in the way of someone who looks at architecture or art - a simple desire to take in the whole piece so as to glean some understanding.

"...It may come as a surprise to you, but the others are not so friendly to poor Cicero. They think him...Eccentric and old-fashioned." Here his eyes downcast, and he began to pick at his velvet gloves. "...They don't really...Talk to me." I was taken aback.

"Why not?" I asked, trying to keep the shock from out of my voice. The man was Void-touched, sure, but weren't we all? A den full of lunatics, really. Serial Killers. Assassins. Not the most put-together bunch. None of us were the same at all, but insanity? That was something I would argue we all had in common.

This did not sit well with me. I had wanted to run away from the same type of feeling the Thieves Guild have given me. That strange form of elitism. At first they were all business, and then a few came around to be friendly, but it never felt like we were really comrades or family. Sure, we celebrated, but it always felt a bit empty. Self-serving. Conditional. If they acted like this to him, how would they react to me? Had I actually made a good choice? It wasn't as if I could back out, now, but -

The jester shrugged in response to my question. "Dunno. Either way, you've been far more kind to lonely Cicero than the others have been - combined. If - If you ever have questions or need advice, perhaps Cicero can...Help? When he is not busy Keeping The Night Mother, of course." I nodded, forcing myself to give him a smile so he felt a little better about approaching me.

And here I had been a bit rude to him for the sake of keeping him at arm's length. Perhaps he just needed what I did - someone to talk to. "...Where may I find you?"

"Oh," His smile faltered a little at the edges, "Well, they have me in a back room, the old storage area." I frowned at that.

"They...Put you, the Keeper, in a storage room?"

"-Humble Cicero does not care where they put him, so long as he can do his job-!"

"Make no mistake, pity is a weakness I seldom indulge myself in - but that seems wrong. Isn't your position somewhat of great importance?"

"Some believe the title is only second to..." And here his voice dipped low in what seemed to be anger or perhaps exhaustion. "The Listener."

"The Listener?" I asked. His face lit up.

"Has no one told you of The Black Hand? The Tenants?" His face fell slightly. "No, no - of course not. Astrid wouldn't. She doesn't believe in our rules." I felt a line form between my brows.

"Astrid...Doesn't believe in The Dark Brotherhood rules? But-" It suddenly made sense why everyone was skirting around the subject of The Night Mother or gave me awkward smiles when I mentioned wanting to know more about Sithis. Astrid had a book on the subject, and I had read a few tomes about The History of The Brotherhood, but I still had many unanswered questions.

"If that doesn't make sense, it's because...Well...It doesn't!" He said, voice pitched in irritation. "Oh, but, perhaps Cicero shouldn't speak so loudly about it." He clamped a hand over his mouth, then drew closer to me to use a slightly quieter voice. The man smelled of preservation oils, and it made me a bit dizzy. "...It's a bit of a sore spot, you see. Some of our siblings care, but most don't. They believe Astrid is the one who leads, so she has become a sort of...Secular goddess. And they call me crazy! Pfft." He scoffed, crossing his arms angrily across his chest. I glanced back at the Visage of Sithis - if only to put some distance between the jester and I.

"Sithis is our...Dread Lord, right? And The Night Mother his conduit? I'm not so familiar in the faith." I admitted. "It seems wrong not to give worship to those that give us our life, wealth, and power." He seemed almost overjoyed at such a sentiment - expression open and alert. "...Perhaps you could explain these things to me? Because of Astrid's secular views, I haven't been well versed in -"

"Cicero could explain everything to you - from the very beginning! And he can tell you of the Tenants and The Black Hand and - and - whatever else you need!" His excitement quickly sobered, and he made a bashful face. "...Oh, but, only if sweet Ula is willing to indulge a Fool with a listening ear."

I looked back up at the art piece thoughtfully.

The stained glass seemed to deepen in color, vivid reds and blacks swirling together. I focused on the empty eye sockets of the skull and the permanent skeleton's-grin perpetually fixed on his face. Warmth filled me, a sort of almost overwhelming emotion coming with it. It was happiness, perhaps - or delirium of one who hadn't slept well in days.

I had always been embraced by the shadows, swaddled in them since I was just a child. Death had always followed me, like a cold hand reaching out from The Void. I was ready. I wanted to know this Visage, the unconditional love of a force greater than myself. I wanted to know the mercy of a dark thing, older than time or light or thought. I wanted to feel the madness that lied within the favor of a being that could destroy worlds and reality itself with simply a breath or want.

"..I would love to hear about our Lord and Lady, Keeper."

Cicero smiled, and something about that grin made me feel both exhilarated and afraid.

"Welcome to the family, dear sister."


	7. Bounty: Part One

He looked so serious in the dim light, mouth pulled into a frown. I often wondered what he thought about when he wasn't busy fidgeting or rambling on. His mind seemed to move so fast that to see him calm and quiet was almost a bit jarring. He never looked like that when I was looking. He always had a smile on his face. But, as it were, I was supposed to be asleep. I wondered if he always looked this way when my gaze was not there to criticize him. What caused his face to fall and age him ten or so more years?

I wondered that for a while.

I stared across the campfire at him from within my bedroll, dismayed that I couldn't just tip my head back and look at the stars without giving myself away. The ceiling of my tent would deny me this simple pleasure, and I wanted something to distract me, but if I shifted too obviously he'd know I was awake.

Did he sleep? I never once saw him sleep. I saw now, in the unflattering light, that he had heavy bags under his eyes. He was still alive, however, which suggested that he must get some sleep somehow, somewhere. I wondered for how long he slept. Minutes? An hour? A few hours, tops, I suspected. Men who were haunted hardly slept, and I had a feeling The Keeper was quite haunted. The far away look he had was very telling. I couldn't decipher what it meant, though. What horrible memories lay deep in that strange mind of his?

I was too afraid to ask.

His copper-colored eyes were made ruddier in the flame of the campfire, and I found myself repeatedly drawn to them despite my best efforts to shut my own and just roll over and go back to sleep.

Yes, he looked very haunted indeed.

I let my mind wander, gaze forced back to the flame for a few long moments. When that lost my attention, I went back to study his expression and was surprised to find him looking back.

"...My Listener, did you have a bad dream?" I was startled at first, flinching against the sound of his voice. The title of Listener would take some getting used to. I felt my cheeks burn in embarrassment but nevertheless wormed my way free and sat on top of the bedroll.

"-Uh, no, I just...Couldn't sleep. How about you? What are you still doing up?"

"Me? Cicero isn't tired. Besides - he has to make sure that The Listener is safe!" I tilted my head, the words spilling out faster than I thought them.

"...What, do you think someone is going to steal me in the middle of the night?" I smiled to show I was joking, but his expression stayed the same.

"...They _could_. They could certainly _try_ , but ever vigilant Cicero wouldn't let them." My smile faded, and I shifted uncomfortably, some memories ghosting across my conscious thought. I shook my head to free me of them, free myself from images of hands pulling me from my tent in the dark.

"I'm not helpless, you know. I haven't exactly lived a comfortable life. You don't have to worry about me so much."

"Oh, but - Listener, that's my job." He laughed then - but more manic than tickled by my supposed naivety. "Besides, Cicero doesn't need to sleep." My eyes focused on the dark circles beneath his eyes. The man looked positively exhausted. I wondered why he was avoiding sleep. Was I an excuse? Did he have nightmares? It was likely I would never have these answers, the way things were going.

"...Well...I really think you should try to get some rest." Then I grinned, "-After all, how will you protect me if you're sleepy all the time?" His mouth pulled down at one corner briefly, but then he was back to the passive smile of a servant.

"What? Who? Me? _Sleepy_? Too sleepy to be The Keeper!? No, no no no. Cicero is _fine_ \- fine fine fine! Don't worry about me, I'm not tired at all! Here, look, I'll show you - " He stood from his place and readied himself to do some trick, but I threw my hands up in surrender.

"No! No, it's fine, I believe you! Besides, if you do a cartwheel or a handstand right here, you might catch your hat on fire or something." I pointed out, gesturing to the fire for effect. "...And that wouldn't be good at all." I laughed. After giving me a strange sort of look, he settled back down and nodded sagely.

"...Hm...The Listener is quite correct, quite correct indeed." Then he glanced up at me. "...But you know, Cicero would never compromise his faculties. He takes his job very seriously, _thank you very much_."

"Oh, relax, I wasn't suggesting you were bad at your job or anything like that. I was just teasing you." I admonished him, playfully. His mouth twitched up into a half-smile.

"...Oh...Oh! You _jest_ with gullible Cicero? Haha, very good. Very good!" He cackled.

At that, we lapsed into a comfortable silence. I glanced up at the blanket of stars above, tracing constellations and signs for a while until I grew bored of that. The moons were out, reminding me of great big, milky blind eyes in the sky and it produced a wave of paranoia and revulsion, and I realized just how small I was in the vastness of the Universe - Dragonborn or not.

I glanced at Cicero again, who was staring into the fire with a passively amused face instead of the serious one he sported before. I wondered if he ever felt the way I just had, or if he was not concerned with his place in the grand scheme of things. I doubted that he had - he seemed very content and singularly fixated on The Dark Brotherhood, and I didn't think it ever occurred to him that there was anything more.

I envied that.

To be so secure in one's place that the thought of doing anything else seemed preposterous and wrong. I wanted to fit in somewhere like that, too - somewhere so snug, I never thought to look for the exit, 'just in case.'

"...Is...Is there something on Cicero's face?" the red-head interrupted my thoughts - and to my grand embarrassment I realized that I had been absently staring off into space directly at him. I flinched again, drawing backwards and avoiding his gaze.

"Ah, no! S-sorry, I, uh, I think I just went elsewhere for a second." I laughed nervously, pulling at a loose thread in the covers I was sitting on. I nervously glanced at him and found that he was still looking at me curiously. "...That's probably a sign I should get some sleep...Uh, we have a big day tomorrow anyways, so be ready."

"Cicero is always ready. But - remind me again, Listener, what exactly are we doing?"

"...Killing a bandit chief for a bounty, remember? It's a way to practice my craft without needing a specific contract. Plus it's familiar. I did this sort of thing all the time before The Dark Brotherhood. It'll be good to get out and get some exercise." I thought to break the awkward tension in that moment. "...Besides, I want to see how rusty you've gotten from years of staying your blade. I _mean,_ I can't have My Keeper being lackluster in his knife skills, can I?" I teased. When he seemed a bit aghast at that suggestion, so I reassured him that I was, in fact, only joking. "-You know - for a jester, you sure don't know how to take a joke very well." He drew back a bit, sober.

"-Cicero is The Fool of Hearts, ah - uh, _a simple jester_ , as you say, yes? And so, _of course_ , he knows how to take a joke; make them, too! - But his unholy duty is _no joke_ , Listener." He spoke, voice pitching slightly lower as if he were telling me a secret. His expression was very grave for a moment before he grinned widely, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "But - oh! Of course, Ulalume _knows_ that, Silly Cicero." He tisked at himself and resumed gazing into the fire.

Silence reigned.

It was oppressive and awkward.

I stared at him for a few long moments, trying to understand the emotions moving through me. Trepidation? Shyness? A tinge of shame, confusion? I hadn't meant to offend the man, but surely it didn't warrant a declaration of an apology, did it? I identified that what I said was problematic, surely that was enough. I wasn't used to feeling like I owed anyone anything, but the compulsion to smooth things over was stronger than my pride.

"...I...I didn't mean to, ah, offend you. It was, um, thoughtless of me, and, uhh, I'm, uh, I'm... Sorry. I was - I was just trying to, ah - nevermind." I frowned deeply at myself, drawing my knees up to my chest. "...I should sleep. I'm obviously not myself." I moved to crawl back into my tent but he spoke up quickly.

"...I know that you didn't mean anything by it." He mumbled. His eyes caught mine. "Cicero is...Sorry, too. Ulalume was just trying to be friendly. It is the mean Keeper who should apologize." I held my hands up again.

"Ah, it's fine. You were...Right." I cringed internally at that admission. "...I shouldn't make light of your important position." I suddenly didn't want to go to bed. Now that we were talking, I didn't want to stop. I shifted awkwardly on the ground, smoothing the blankets underneath me, then cleared my throat. "...Ah, speaking of which, I wanted to discuss my plans in detail before I head back to sleep - if, uh, if you don't mind?" My voice cracked slightly with anxiousness.

"Oh! No! Of course not, Dear Listener, Cicero is always eager to help!" He perked up, smiling again.

"Well, I just want to make it clear that my tactics are probably unconventional, and I don't want to alarm you."

"...Oh?"

"...I like to go in practically unarmed, pretend I'm vulnerable and infiltrate the camp as a civilian. It makes things easier." He blinked for a moment, then another, then his face moved into a deep frown.

"...Listener, I don't think that's such a good idea. I understand the genius of it, but - I mean, what if you get hurt? Or worse! What if you get killed? Cicero has only just found you - I - I - I think Mother will be quite cross with me if we lose you so quickly!"

"Well...I trust that you'll have my back, at the very least." I shrugged. "Besides - I've done this dozens of times solo. You have to have faith in my abilities, Keeper. Tomorrow is simply a test run for the both of us. If you're going to be following me around, I think we need to see how that'll look like. We've got to learn to work together." He shifted, hands worrying at one another.

"...Cicero is very concerned, but I suppose Ulalume is right. Besides, if anything happens, loyal Cicero can save The Listener, no trouble at all."

"I'm sure you can." I smiled, though my heart stoked a flame of angered annoyance. I was not some damsel who needed saving. I bit my tongue on what I wanted to say and continued in a bit more polite fashion: "Ah-But I don't think I'll be killed by some measly bandits. I didn't get this far without a level of finesse and skill."

"...I believe you, Listener." He says, though I don't hear the truth of the words ring true.

"...It's...Ulalume." I mumbled softly.

"Hm?"

"...I prefer that you call me by my name." I replied. There was a beat of silence between us as he processed what I had said. Then - he looked at me as if I had grown a second head. I wasn't sure why he took such horror at the suggestion, but I realized perhaps it was not something appropriate for someone with my title. His dogmatic faith in the religious aspect of The Brotherhood tended to make him conservative with respect to the Tenants and the traditions, and maybe what I suggested was so wildly outside the realm of proper that I probably upset him.

He spoke a bit slowly, this time, voice level. "...Is...That...An order?" I shifted again, fingers digging into my legs to fight the knee-jerk reaction to tell him yes if only to make myself more comfortable. It wouldn't change the dynamic of our situation, and would only reinforce things that I had begun to grow uncomfortable with. I didn't want him to treat me like my word was law, or that he was somehow a subjugate - but here we were.

"What? No! I was just - " I searched his face and decided it wasn't worth it to get upset. "...Nevermind."

"...Yes, My Listener." He answered, squinting at me before he gazed up at the sky. I stood, briefly, to stretch my legs before climbing back into my tent.

"...Goodnight." I muttered, covering my head with a blanket.

"Sleep tight~" He sang into the dark.

* * *

So it came to be that we were at the entrance to a tomb-turned-hideout the next morning, I, in a pretty peasant dress and Cicero trying his very hardest not to appear too giddy for the upcoming slaughter.

It was easy for me to pretend to be a damsel in distress. As a stroke of hilarious irony, Cicero and I decided on posing as two travelers whose wagon wheel broke, looking for assistance.

I went over the plan in my head again, just a quick once over for the sake of being thorough.

 **Step One: Gain access to the bandit's hideout by posing as a civilian.  
** **Step Two: Pretend to panic, gain an audience with their leader or someone who can take me to them.  
** **Step Three: If in the presence of the leader, kill everyone. If not, kill everyone near and take a hostage.  
** **Step Three(b): Gain access to leader by hostage, kill them, then kill stragglers.  
** **Step Four: Loot, then chop off the head of the chief and return to Whiterun for the bounty.**

It was easier said than done, but with a partner it lessened the burden immensely. Although, there was one point that I was a little nervous about: Disturbing the draugr. I hadn't done a fair bit of dungeon diving in Skyrim as I had originally wanted to, as I widely considered it a bit sacrilegious, though I wasn't morally above it entirely. As time went on, grave-robbing had gotten easier - for the sake of interest in tombs, puzzles, and the history at the least of it.

I also tended to avoid them because they had word-walls. When I was near one, it made my skin crawl and strange voices start to sing in my head. It never failed to feel invading and grotesque.

Things, fortunately, went according to plan. We were lead deeper into the bowels of the tomb, and found ourselves absolutely surrounded by bandits. Cicero's giddiness had been traded in for nervous excitement, and I found him trailing closer than he usually did.

"This way, this way - I'm sure our boss will have something in mind to help you folks out - " The man rambled on. I had been counting while walking through the system. Twenty of them, all in all - a rather sizeable band, and I admit if I had been by myself I would have found the number a difficult task to eliminate. With Cicero, we could split their attention, which soothed my nerves.

There was a large part of me that felt guilty for destroying these bands of men and women who surely only joined these types of groups out of desperation, but I always reminded myself that these types thrived on violence for the sake of it, and largely upheld views of greed above all else. Greed was understandable. Violence was understandable. I reveled in both. But they lacked a finesse that one needed to be a rogue - they lacked intelligence to be anything more than pests, and they lacked the integrity to make big scores.

In a word: They were useless. Not good enough to be thieves, not good enough to be assassins or even mercenaries - and not focused enough to become anything more than nameless groups. I would have more respect for them if they actually applied themselves and obtained notoriety. Instead, they stick to petty thievery (I say petty because I ran better scams than them at ten winters old) and grave-robbing.

And so - their lives were worth more to me dead than alive.

"I - I just think - maybe, we should just wait outside - " I protested meekly, giving shifty, nervous glances at the surrounding bandits. The one who had spoke scoffed.

"No - no, it'll be safer in here with us. After all, there are crazy types around here, right boys?" They all laughed, a raucous sound that echoed through the chamber. Things were still okay, still fine. I wasn't actively resisting and they thought they had me under control. Fear was control.

The air shifted in the room as I suddenly stopped. "I just - " The man grabbed me roughly by the arm, pulling me forward. I grit my teeth in irritation but tried to keep my face passive.

"Chief will wanna meet you. Do you want our help, or not?" I let him hold my arm for a moment as I glanced at Cicero, whose expression was hard and irate.

"Don't." I whispered to the red-head, begging him not to make any spur-of-the-moment changes to our plan. His fingers twitched, arms tense and shoulders squared. He frowned deeply, but made no move to attack the man. "Sir, unhand me. I don't want your help anymore - "

He forcefully pulled me towards the back of the room, tried to present me to a man sitting at a stone table there. I pretended to resist with all my might, fighting weakly against his grasp. Cicero, growing more and more uncomfortable as I took another step towards the boss - was suddenly grabbed. I panicked for a moment - worried he would cut loose too soon, but he was good. He just bared his teeth at the man who grabbed his arms.

Heavy silence reigned in the room for all of two seconds.

"...Well well well, what do we have here?" The chief rumbled, standing from his chair.

"This lady needs our help. I thought we could grab a couple guys to go and relieve some of the weight off her wagon so the wheel doesn't break again."

"No!" I protested - as if this was a massive surprise to me.

"What's she got?" The chief ignored my outburst, eyes focused on the bandit who had me in his grasp.

"Says she's visiting a friend all the way from Cyrodiil. I'd wager she's got expensive jewelry and dresses we could sell in Riften to - "

This was boring. I wanted to get to the fun parts.

I ripped my arm from his grasp, and he immediately tried to grab me again. I moved backwards out of his reach and immediately went for the dagger strapped to my leg. With a quick slash I cut his offending arm and he hissed in pain.

"Now!" I yelled, ducking a swing from another bandit. Cicero sprang beside me quickly, dual knives ready and eager.

" _Finally_!" He cackled, running into the fray.

* * *

 **A/N:** I plan on updating this every Monday and Friday, so stay tuned!


	8. Bounty: Part Two

The jester's enthusiasm never failed to surprise me - but this was the first time I had truly seen him in action. He had warned me that he was a bit rusty, once, in passing - that being The Keeper had dulled his instincts; But if this was what he counted as being off his game then I was curious to know just how prolific his career had been in the past.

He was quick and gleeful, striking often before his enemy even knew how to react. I couldn't watch him much, as I was dealing with my own enemies, but there was something almost graceful about his movements. Like...Dancing. It was practiced and confident, and I almost felt a pang of regret that I couldn't observe his technique more closely.

I, on the other-hand, never considered my style graceful. I had a few advantages in that I was largely self-taught and that confused enemies who were actually trained in combat - however, something like that had no place here. I ran on instinct and speed and hit hard when it mattered. That is to say, I did not rely solely on my weapons.

Often, I engaged my opponents physically to get them off balance, break a bone or two or throw them on the ground before I managed to find a vein to slice open. In a way, the violence was better than the stabbing, but I'd never tell anyone that outloud. Ever since I had taken a few dragon souls, the emptiness grew. I felt rage so much more easily, and it became harder to soothe the fire that burned in my chest.

Living with the Khajiit taught me the importance of misdirection. There were no fair rules in fights. Winning was the goal, and that was to be achieved by any means necessary. I was flabbergasted by 'honor-bound' warriors who decided to juggle their lives on principles that had no place in life-or-death situations.

I hooked my leg around one of the last remaining bandits and pulled him to the ground. Before he could get back up I sliced his throat. The large chamber had been useful to move around in, but now the stench of death and sweat filled the space. At long last, only a few remained.

I glanced around to see where Cicero had gone but was extremely dismayed to find that I couldn't see him at first. Suddenly a red streak erupted from the shadows and barrelled into an enemy. He took the big orc down with force, and stabbed into his throat with feverish excitement. It was over quick, and he joined my side.

His pale face was splattered with blood, a wide and manic smile sliced across his features. He drew up closer to me as the remaining four tried to box us in.

I tapped Cicero on his arm and whispered "I take two, you take two. I'll go left."

"Yes, My Listener." He acquiesced, eyes focused on his prey. There was something interesting in the way he changed his demeanor in battle - but I didn't have time to sort out exactly what. I pulled away from him and sought to separate the men so that we weren't overwhelmed.

I slid between the legs of one and managed to sweep him to the ground. While he rose I jumped on the back of the other and plunged my knife repeatedly into his chest. He screamed as he fell backwards and I had to quickly disengage before he fell on top of me. I didn't want a dead man to pin me to the ground.

I heard the echoes of laughter from the other side of the room - as if madness itself was bouncing off the stone walls. I ignored my partner and had to dodge a few swings of a warhammer. I stepped inside the arc to gain better access to the large Nord trying to kill me, but in the end he too succumbed to my blade.

Silence, save for idle panting.

I glanced around the room and found Cicero wiping his daggers with a cloth produced from only Sithis-knows-where. He was twitchy, giddy even. I couldn't help but become infected with the feeling, too. We were alive! _We did it_!

"...Did we kill the chief?" I wondered out loud. The battle had been a hazy, adrenaline-fueled free for all, and in my excitement I couldn't remember if I had been the one to end him or not.

"There." Cicero pointed, having trouble stifling a laugh. The man was most assuredly dead, his own sword pinning him to a table. "You did that one, I think."

"Hm." I hummed thoughtfully. "...Well...Now all that's left is to loot the bodies. Will you help me?"

"Of course, My Listener."

After a few minutes fumbling around dead man's pockets, I counted up the septims and appraised some valuable items and stuffed them in my pack.

"...Cicero never understood thieves, really. Steal from someone _before_ you kill them? Pfft. And they call me crazy."

"Hey, watch it." I grinned. He eyed me curiously. "I was a thief for my whole life, you know! I'll let you in on the secret: The basic idea is - you can't continually steal from someone if they're dead. You can't make a stone bleed, and all that. The more people you keep alive, the more you can steal later."

"Mm. I guess I never thought of it that way. That's probably because to me, gold is secondary to the killing." He muttered. We were silent for a few more long minutes as we wrapped up the looting.

"You'll get a cut of this, too, Keeper. It's only fair." I remarked absently, trying to keep the tally in my head.

"Oh, no no no! Cicero is not a man after loot. He's here to Keep the Listener safe. You keep it. After all, it was reward enough for rusty Cicero to bloody his blades again." I frowned but didn't make a move to rebuke him. After all, if he didn't want the gold, then who was I to short-change myself?

"...So, what do you think? After all, this is the first time we've been out together. What do you think of my style?"

"About you?" I nodded. He put a thoughtful finger to his chin. "...It's like watching an artist. You're an inspiration, really."

I grimaced. "...I have a feeling you're being sarcastic."

"Cicero? _Sarcastic_!?" He half-squealed in dismay. "Never, dear Listener." I rolled my eyes at that.

"Well, I think we work well together." I confessed. "...At the very least, we don't get in each other's way. Maybe you can show me a few pointers, though, if my form isn't - " I trailed off, watching his expression stay blank, then shifted awkwardly. Now was not the time to appear sloppy or uneducated. "...Anyways, we should probably find something to prove we cleared the place out. I generally find a personal artifact suffices, but in a pinch a head will do."

Cicero looked at me a moment longer with that blank expression before a grin spread across his face. "Understood."

Thankfully the chief had an inscribed ring and I didn't have to carry around any body parts. I wasn't averse to it, but the stench was often unbearable. We were just about to leave when suddenly a mechanical whir erupted in the chamber and I realized I had made a fatal mistake.

 _Trap_.

I had accidentally stepped on an activation stone. My mind raced in the split second I had.

Why hadn't we tripped it before? We hadn't purposefully stepped around anything, to my knowledge. And I was very careful of taking inventory of my surroundings. But - I had idly seen a lever in the chamber before the fighting started, and perhaps one of the bandits had activated the traps with it before they died? I felt intense shame. I was a _rogue,_ I was supposed to be light of foot and careful.

I felt myself being swept off my feet and pushed into the unforgiving stone wall on the other side of the doorway. A sick sharp sound came immediately thereafter, like metal grating on metal. To my horror - I realized they were spikes rising up from the ground to impale anyone who had set off the trap.

Cicero held me against the wall, head turned to look at where we had just been standing. I stared up at him, feeling his bony arm pressing into my chest and the other gripping my side. We were both still panting, exhilarated from the high of death-dealing and victory. He slowly turned his head to meet my gaze, copper-colored eyes wide with surprise.

"Listener! Be more careful!" He scolded, thin brows furrowing into a positively annoyed expression.

This close, the freckles on his face were more pronounced - mixed with the blood splatter, I could almost draw constellations with my finger. He smelled of preservations oils and an unattractive tang of sweat, but I probably didn't smell any better.

Still - still, there was something about him in that moment. It was like I could see past all the grime and madness and look at the man he used to be.

He gazes down at me, expression softening, and I feel his grip slackening, and yet he makes no move to separate from me. I can feel the heat of our proximity causing my face to flush, and I know he can read the emotions on my face.

The moment passed quickly and I gently pushed him away from me, mumbling an embarrassed 'thanks,' and 'sorry.'

Ugh. No. **No.**

Why was I like this?

A man idly saves my life, and I have to go and start looking at him in a new light. I reminded myself that he was a dirty, weasel-like scarecrow of a man with an annoying voice and odd fixations with corpses. Plus, he wasn't even attractive by any stretch of the imagination. His long limbs were gangly, his posture was unsavory, and the natural shape of his face was too sharp to be considered handsome. Not to mention his hair was almost always a bit stringy and unkempt. Although, there was a strange sort _interest_ in the gauntness of his features, and he possessed an intelligent gaze that -

I scolded myself. Absolutely Not. **No.** ** _NO._**

I was disgusted with myself. If I allowed myself any sort of comfort, I would be setting myself up to be too vulnerable - and that never ended well.

I pushed the thoughts out of the forefront of my mind and locked them up where hopefully they'd never come back again.

* * *

He was quiet the whole way back to the entrance of the tomb. I found it rather odd - as the man was always humming or tittering or talking to himself in hushed whispers. It made me uncomfortable, but I didn't say anything about it as we emerged into the evening sun.

We walked back to our camp to clean ourselves up, and decided to head to Whiterun in the morning. The sun was starting to set, and I didn't feel like taking a room at the inn or going to Breezehome. I didn't like the little house except for stashing away extra trinkets. And The Dark Brotherhood didn't need to know I was The Dragonborn. Not yet, at least.

We started a campfire, ate a quick and bland dinner, and settled down for the night.

"...You know, you never answered my question." I prodded, watching his face for a reaction. His eyes met mine for a brief moment, then skittered back to the campfire between us. "...Do you...Think I'm even cut out for my title?"

His expression flickered for a moment to one that I read as displeasure before becoming passive once more. "Mmmm...Cicero trusts his UnHoly Matron. Don't you?" I brought my knees up to my chest and warmed my hands by the fire.

"...Yes, but I want _your_ opinion. You know more about The Brotherhood than anyone else. Sometimes I think...Maybe...I'm in over my head. Not with The Brotherhood, but this whole...Listener thing. Astrid said - "

He grew agitated immediately. "Astrid knows nothing, My Listener. She's a strumpet and a heretic. Listen only to The Night Mother, for her words are from Sithis and therefore law. She chose you for a reason."

"...And what reason might that _be_ , Keeper?" He twitched anxiously, hands picking at one another and stood from his spot. He paced a bit, digging his boots into the dirt.

"...I cannot say what The Night Mother or Sithis has planned for us, and Cicero does not pretend to know much about their mystery." I frowned as I realized he was trying to actively avoid answering the question altogether.

"But what do _you_ think?" I pressed. He glanced uncomfortably at me. "Tell me the truth, Keeper." His mouth twitched into a frown.

"...Is...That an Order, Mistress?" He asked, voiced pitched a whole tone lower. Something about that made my insides twist nervously, and I squirmed under his gaze.

"...I just want to know, that's all." I didn't want to come across as demanding or anxious, so I tried to play it off. "If you don't feel comfortable sharing, I won't push you. I'm _not_ your master." His irises glinted red in the low light. Something about that look was familiar but I shrugged it off as the light playing tricks on my already anxious mind.

"But you _are_. You are The Boss, Listener. You're above Astrid, above me- second only to The Night Mother herself. Without you, The Brotherhood is nothing but a den of lowly mercenaries. _You_ are what makes our work divine." He regarded me with a studious look. " And you need to learn your place."

I was speechless for a moment as I tried to gather myself and create an appropriate response.

"You don't think I'm cut out for the job, do you? You wanted it for yourself, right? I - I don't even want the position. I wanted to just...Blend in, find steady work, and - " He sat back down and leaned forward, towards me.

"Listener, _please_. I - I _did_ want the job, yes, but that's over. Mother chose - Mother chose _you_ , and if she believes in you, that's enough for...Disappointed Cicero. Now, do I believe The Listener is too young? A bit rough in her form? A bit too reluctant to take leadership of The Brotherhood? Yes. Does that bother Cicero? Does it make him _irritated_? Does he think that it means we're playing right into Astrid's hands?" He paused for a moment to fix his eyes elsewhere, catching himself growing increasingly agitated. "...Mm...Yes, a bit."

I shifted uncomfortably.

"...Yes, about that. Look, I don't want to make waves right now. I'm trying to help you convince the others that The Old Ways are good. It'll take time. We can't just stage a take-over. We need all the people on our side that we can get. You have to trust me on that, okay?"

He sighed, eyes flickering away. "...Yes, Listener. I understand."

"No, I want you to mean it." His attention snapped up to focus on me.

"Cicero does! As Keeper, I am sworn to - "

"No, I want you to _agree_ with me. I want your input. I don't - I don't know what I'm...Doing. " I cringed at my own stupidity. I had just showed him my hand, and he could very well bite it. I tried again: "...What I mean is that - you're the only person who knows what all this is supposed to look like. You know what The Listener is supposed to do, how they should be, how they should lead. You know what a fully functional Brotherhood is like. I don't. Clearly Astrid doesn't. And the others don't care enough to tell me, perhaps in fear of drawing Astrid's ire."

He studied my features and made an expression that was hard to read.

"...You have potential, Listener. What Cicero saw today was...Like The Old Ways, like...Something The Great Lucien LaChance might have come up with - underhanded, yet executed with a purpose. It was different, polished. You need to have more confidence in yourself."

I frowned but said nothing. Was it really that obvious that I needed someone to tell me 'good job!'? To pat me on the back? I felt ashamed of myself.

"...Did you really mean what you said yesterday?" He wondered out loud. " - That you want Cicero to call you by your name?"

I did not answer. I wasn't sure what the _right_ answer was.

"...Will it make you feel better?" He continued.

"...I don't know." I admitted. I just...Feel saddled with this huge responsibility, and I - " _I can't talk to anyone else about it._

I ball my hands into fists, pressing dress fabric against my thighs.

I'm angry at myself.

I want to tell him about my lack of esteem, my reluctance to lead - but what good would that do? He could use it against me one day, anyhow. And maybe he'd see me as a coward trying to run away from responsibility. Maybe he'd be right. And I didn't owe him explanations, nor did he seem interested.

I relax a bit, shoulders hunched and fists unclenching.

Cicero says nothing.

"...You're right - " I say through partially gritted teeth, "Nevermind." I caught him shifting uncomfortably from the corner of my eye, but he made no move to add anything to the conversation. I prompted him to speak by drawling out a curt "...What?"

He seemed startled at first, but then relaxed. "...Cicero has faith that Ula can do many great things. That's all. I didn't want you think that I don't think you're capable. It's just - Cicero wanted so badly to be The Listener, and - " He trailed off quickly, here, not finishing the thought. He glanced up at me nervously, sighing. "...Cicero's just...He needs time to adjust to everything, I think."

"You and me both." I say.

"...Cicero likes you, Ula. I don't think there's anyone else I'd rather have as Listener." I feel myself warm considerably.

"...Ah, thank you, Keeper. I appreciate that."


	9. An UnHoly Illusion

**A/N: Switching POV a bit.**

* * *

It had started as subtle manipulation.

Get into her good graces, make her comfortable around him. He had wanted to convince her - this new recruit - to join him against Astrid. Teach her The Old Ways, guide her and groom her. And when Mother offered him confirmation of his good work through making her worthy of the title of The Listener - it sort of made him equal parts proud and disappointed. Of course, _he_ had wanted that honor - but if Ula was good enough, then he clearly was on the right path.

But...Now? Now that they were _closer_? Now that they were friends, had been on many jobs together - and she had the audacity to be kind and gentle with him? And she had the audacity to be so soft and quiet as she was vicious and precise? Oh, _that_ had not been the plan.

Nothing prepared him for what he was feeling. - Not that he was sure _what_ exactly he was feeling, but he had a foggy idea of what it could be... _Maybe._ Not that he could focus long enough to really understand it _all,_ but there was definitely some effort.

But, here. Now. There was an idea of a plan stuck in his head, something to try and figure everything out. He had some time to reflect, just for a moment, before it began.

She was always there, sacraligeously placing first against the true matron of his heart. She, so secular, so sinful, so _right_. Velvet-clad hands begged the mind to just give in, to touch - to _feel_ so that he could be sure she was truly real.

And he chastised himself for his _audacity_. He could never come up with such a grand mirage. She _had_ to be real, and he didn't need to _defile_ her with his dirty hands to prove it. She was _chosen_ , an example of perfection in The Dread Lord's eyes and the true favorite of The Night Mother.

Surely _Sithis_ would not have conjured the perfect woman for _him_ , either? The Dread Lord did all for his _own_ entertainment, surely not his lady's _Keeper._ And yet here she was all the same: a beautiful illusion of the profanest and deadliest sort. A maiden, so kind - a killer, so ruthless.

No, she was certainly not _for_ him, of course - he was not a romantic in that sense, and the very idea entertained was almost laughable. Still:

There was a small undercurrent of hatred for her that he could scarcely describe - but it colored their every interaction. Not that he disliked her, no - no - on the contrary: How _dare_ she make him feel this way? How dare she attempt to validate him as a fellow human being?

...He knew it was not her fault, though. Not really. She had done nothing. It was all on him to control his own emotions. _Naughty Keeper_.

She was...An itch he was forbidden to scratch, a nagging little thing that rooted itself firmly into his brain.

Was this a test? Was her purpose distracting him from his duty? But...She was part of that duty, though, wasn't she? His job was making sure she was healthy, guarded, protected and... _Happy,_ right?

Every movement she made was torture, every smile rewarded was bliss. She commanded him to do something, and he had to fight the urge to - to - to do _what_? Whatever it was, it was a desperate, sometimes _aggressive_ or anxious feeling; Reaching an aching crescendo when she was so near to him that he could reach out and touch her. It was a different sort of madness.

And she: So careful, so sweet and deadly...With her full lashes and warm, red mouth. How easily he could have killed her in her sleep or choked her to death - slip a knife between her ribs. In all the times they had been alone together. But she was precious, in so much that he considered her to be _fragile_. She trusted him in a way he knew she did not trust the others - never complete, of course, but still _enough_ that she would be surprised at the sudden aggression. And he would have liked to revel in that shocked expression. Wide eyes and open mouth, pleading - gasping -

\- And that was the strange part, what he couldn't understand: Why did he think of such things when he knew very well he could never consciously hurt her? And not even because of The Tenants, but because he had no _desire_ to -? Such easy prey, and he couldn't even bring himself to fantasize about what-ifs. Why fixate on anger and jealousy at all?

So now he was here. He _had_ to know.

Shaking hands tugged on the tips of the fingers of his gloves as teeth gnashed against cracked lips. Nervous, dreadfully nervous, and yet he _wanted_ in. He desired to see if it felt the same, tending to her as he tended to Her Unholiness's corpse upstairs. Was what he felt the same reverence? Desire of Worship? Was it because of her title? _That_ might actually settle him. That was familiar. Was it _wrong_ of him if it _was_ the same? Would Mother be displeased? Angry? And what if it wasn't the same at all?

What would _that_ mean?

So he pushed the door open, averting his eyes to the ground in case she was indecent, which was _very_ possible because she had said she was taking a bath. Why else would she be in the bathing room, anyways?

Fingers twitched in memory of long ago touches, and ancient feelings were dredged up from the pit of his stomach. It was a sort of burning thrill in the idea of a woman's nakedness that he had scarcely felt in nearly a decade, and it shamed him. He should not be feeling such a way. Not towards _his_ sweet Listener, no. She was a darkness too pure to be categorized and compartamentalized in such an undeserving way.

Before the time he called The Silence, he had certainly _not_ been celebate - no - but he did not really _remember_ That Time either. Or at all. Truly, he had completely forgotten such strange and foreign desires of the flesh, which made them all the more dizzying to experience now - as if they were someone _else's_ feelings altogether. And perhaps they were - they were not Cicero The Keeper's thoughts, but of the _long_ **dead** Cicero The Man's.

But it was only a post-mortem jerk of the corpse's limbs, and the thought lasted for less than a moment where then it was dutifully pushed to the depths of his mind.

This was _not_ about desire or lust - it was about intimacy. Curiosity.

She gasped - which made him flinch and mis-step in the dance of his practiced walk, though his eyes remained glued to the stone floor. "Keeper!" Was the exasperated word that came out of her mouth, but how he had _wished_ it had been his name, which was a painful irony in that he had been adamant for the longest time to call her only by her title. "What are you doing in here?" He heard her as she sunk deeper into the hot, sudsy water, and he felt like butterflies were nesting inside his intestines.

"My duty, Listener." He spoke, voice practiced and cheery. "Ula has had a very busy week!" He moved into the room more completely, shutting the door behind him. She did not move from the spot within the tub, which made him certain she had all of the more pleasant bits covered. He managed to work up the courage to glance up at her, and he felt the flicker of some forgotten emotion flutter in his chest in response to her expression. It was close. Close to what he wanted.

Dead indeed. His other-self had been gone for years, and yet - What was this now? What new level of sacrilege was this? Surely punishment was the only way to rid him of such guilt - but that was for later. He would pray for forgiveness _later_. Now - there was this. There was _her._

Wide and nervous eyes, a pouted mouth, and curls pressed wetly against her round face - she looked absolutely _grand_ as a victim. There was something in that moment that made him forget that she was a killer as much as he was, because she looked so _vulnerable_ and - He swallowed and felt his throat tighten for a moment as he stepped forward, forcing his gait to remain unabated and as normal as possible.

The thoughts were ghosts, and they were transparent, then gone. Floating, flying - never there.

"What?" She had responded confusedly, a squeak from a woman who was normally so calm and cold. He sort of liked that. His mouth twitched up into an amused smile, focusing his stare to her eyes and definitely _not_ at the exposed expanse of collarbone and shoulders that sat above water and soap.

"Cicero is the Keeper. He Keeps The Night Mother and the Listener, remember?" It was a question she did not seem inclined to answer, so he took it as a yes. He was not so easily forgotten, was he? No - of course not, she thought the question had been rhetorical. "And _you_ are The Listener. It is The Fool of Heart's humble duty to _serve_ you." And he bowed shortly - eyes never leaving hers.

A thought from somewhere else edged languidly into the expanse of the _Other_ , the large part of his mind that was full of riddles and songs and words that never made sense - this thought that whispered something about _servitude_ and catering to her every fancy and whim, _command me_ \- and how that would have meant something so unclean had he not been -

And then the thought was broken, stopping there as he watched her sink deeper into the soap. He did admit that he was sad to see the porcelain skin covered by the suds. She was so pretty - but he - The Jester, _The Keeper_ regarded her the same way one does a painting or a statue, not a living, breathing -

"I don't _need_ help, Keeper. Uh, but _thanks._ I'm - I'm okay, thank you." She stammered, heat flushed cheeks growing darker.

"Nonsense, sister!" He exclaimed, panicked that he would lose the opportunity to _feel,_ to understand _-_ "Cicero _wants_ to help!" He moved closer to her and she moved so her chin touched the water. Her hair was wet, and she had all of the supplies she used to wash near her on the floor, so he simply sat at the edge of the tub. "Please?" He plastered on his best smile for her and she looked up at him.

"...I don't know if you realize this, but I am currently naked." She stated flatly. He stared at her. "People wash naked. _I'm naked_." He squinted at her, tilting his head as if the angle might make his brain work better. Right, right. _Naked_. That had occurred to him. Yes. People _usually_ took baths without clothes, right? Naked. ...So what?

"...Does...Ula...Want bashful Cicero to get naked too?" He furrowed his brow in confusion, not quite following her point. "That's a little _unnecessary_ , don't you think, Listener? _I'm_ not the one in the tub - "

"No! No, I just meant - I'm - I'm uncomfortable with your presence in here." She mumbled. "While I'm... _Naked_." Ouch. That hurt, though he wasn't sure why.

"Come now, Listener. We are both adults." He scoffed. What an innocent little flower. He had seen plenty of women naked - there was nothing under the water that he certainly couldn't _imagine_ , at least - though, he would _never_. Sweet Ula was not some tart to _fantasize_ about. But it wasn't as if nakedness was inherently _wrong_ , either. Unless - Did she think he was some _pervert_? Some _debased_ -

"Adults!" She exclaimed, breaking his trail of thoughts. "Exactly. Don't you see how _strange_ this is -? " He frowned. No, he did not, thank you very much. He was just trying to be a good subjugate. Make Mother proud, have Ula like him. She was quiet for an agonizing moment, just looking at him. Studying his face. He tried very hard to look wholesome and nice - because, he was. For his sweet Ula, he really was. Finally she spoke: "Tell me, Keeper: What is it that you think you can help with? I'm a grown woman, so I don't really - I've - I've already washed, I'm just soaking. And -"

"Um, well -! " He looked around the room, full of steam and heat. For a moment, his thoughts derailed again - it was sticky in here, and he was growing too warm, and perhaps he _should_ have taken off some layers - but then he came back around to what she had said and thought carefully. Desperate, grab whatever you can. He looked at her, then and - Yes. That would do. "Oooh, I know! Cicero could wash and brush Ula's pretty hair?" She seemed to relax a little.

"Well I _haven't_ done - I...I don't require assistance with that." She said meekly, obviously aware that he was going to reject that notion. She looked tired. She knew she did, and she knew he knew that and he could see that in her face. She _could_ have ordered him out and he would obey, but he knew he seemed very eager to be helpful, which he was. He watched as she made a decision in her head, deflating with defeat."...Fine, I suppose you can- "

"Yes!" Ha! Success! He laughed and clapped giddly with pent up excitement, nearly toppling into the tub with her. He grabbed one of the bottles near the edge of the polished stone bath as she wet her hair more. She moved, turning her back to him with some small hesitation.

"Okay, but just - be gentle, okay?" She mumbled. He carefully removed his gloves and set them on the floor beside his feet. He dipped his hands in the water and she flinched, though he hardly payed attention. He was too _happy_. She was finally letting him do his job _right_. Ula never liked him doing things for her, and it made him feel like he was just bad at it, that perhaps he had somehow offended her or that he was just _unsatisfactory_. And here he tried so _hard_.

He filled his palm with the nice smelling soap for her hair and lathered it between his fingers. It was not quite the oil he smoothed over Mother's, but it was close enough. Same principle. Massage it into the scalp, work it towards the ends.

Practiced hands ghosted over black strands, which curled rebelliously against the weight of the water. He hummed a tune as he did his job, careful to comb his fingers through the thick mass with utmost care. Her hair had always been his favorite - so heavy, and long, and dark as The Void. There had been times when the urge to plunge his hand deep within it was almost maddening. Soft, shiny, silky. Careful, careful - _gentle_ and slow lest he tug the hair too hard and _hurt_ her. She would never _ever_ let him do anything ever again! And maybe she would even be _angry_. He couldn't handle that.

She relaxed beneath his gentle touch, slipping into the water a bit more deeply and stifling a sigh with one of her hands. When he had finished, he found himself hesitating to touch her again. He would have to _touch her_ with his _bare hands_. He already had, but _this_ \- this was her _skin_ and - His heart was a lump in his throat that he could not swallow around. He finally _did_ continue, pressing on - the warm, flushed skin brushing his shaking fingertips. He gently captured her neck beneath his palm, pulling so that she leaned her head back. This allowed him to gently pour water over her hair, washing it free of the soap.

And he looked upon her countenance.

Her expression was rapturous - calm, serene. Eyes shut and mouth unmarred by the usual tightness it had. There was one mad, delightful second that he thought to immortalize this moment by slicing her throat - it was bared to him, after all. To sink a knife into that pale, unmarred softness and bloom red was -

Oh, he _shivered_. To even think of it was too much. But he _would_ miss her terribly, and to kill her was still unthinkable. He never meant it _like that -_ no. It would be a gesture of frienship, not anger. Like an artist making a quick sketch. The only art he knew how to do, however, was murder. Well, the result would have been the same, thought the intent was different - And that would simply not do. She needed to be alive, of course. Silly Cicero.

He murmured to her that he was finished with his task, surprised at the softness in his voice as much as she was. He had not heard _that_ exact tone come from his mouth in years. And to whom had he spoken to, so soft and serene? He did not know. Maybe it had only been in a dream.

Her eyes slowly opened, and when reality came crashing back to her, she stiffened again, hands fluttering over her neck and collarbone. "Uh, thank you - " She stammered, "C-can you - I have my robe over there, if you would -?" With great reluctance he moved himself from the tub's lip and retrieved her coverings. He looked away as he offered it to her, and he heard the wet splashes of her body moving out of the saftey of the water.

He _did_ want to glance at her, perhaps while she was distracted and would not see him do so - but then he chastised himself. Ula's sweet softness was not for his eyes. He was supposed to be good and protective and so - _so very dutiful_. And then, if he had given into such compulsions, he'd be the sort of man she had probably suspected him of being when he first entered. He was _not_ trying to peek, he was the happy Keeper doing his job, trying to sort through his feelings.

There was a flutter of discontent in his breast before she cleared her throat so that he knew he could look. He snapped out of it, forgetting it almost completely and as quickly as when he had been overcome with the compulsion. And he did so, cheerfully. No - no bad, naughty thoughts for Cicero.

"Um - " He saw her glance at the door, almost as if she were trying to _escape_. But that was not it at all, and they both knew that much. The expression had been the same, but there was no fear, only silly embarrassment.

"Cicero is not finished! He has to brush sweet Ula's hair, no?" He saw her flush as she pulled the robe tighter around herself. He could see what flashed through her mind at that moment. It ghosted across her eyes. A word. _Naked_. But she had the robe on, so he didn't quite understand.

"If you want to. I like doing it myself, but - " Her voice faltered as she walked toward him, and she must have seen something in his face because she relaxed a little. "Okay." She turned from him and awkwardly sat in front of the small vanity in the corner of the room. The mirror was fogged up, and he was sure _not_ to stare as she stretched and wiped the steam free from the glass. He _certainly_ did not see the way the line of her body looked against the stone, either - curved, with soft places that were obviously meant for hands. He sat beside her on the bench seat, and she turned so he could access her hair more easily. Gingerly picking up the brush, he combed it through the wet ends first before slowly making his way up to the roots.

Yes, just like he did with Mother - but it felt different.

Well, at least _that_ question had been answered, but what did it even mean? How _did_ it feel, then?

Warm. Quiet. Less like a chore and more like prayer, though markedly less reverent. It was a worship of a different kind, though he lacked the vocabulary to properly dictate what it truly felt like. She, a woman and he at the altar of her mind, asking her for _something_ , but he wasn't sure what. He understood, though, on some level, that it was a singular _honor_ to touch her so familiarly - and that it was not inherently exclusive to what could be considered to some as an intimacy reserved for lovers. She had lived a different life, and this was not what it would have meant to another woman, and on some level he appreciated that immensely. This was affection, but not romance. This was certainly _not_ that at all, though somewhere deep inside he wished it was. It _was_ something akin to a test, however and one he hoped he passed.

She was _very_ still through the ordeal, and he found himself worrying that _she_ was a corpse - that he _imagined_ she talked to him and moved around, when in reality it was _him_ and - but perhaps - A bare hand ghosted over her shoulder as he moved a section of her hair, and he felt the heat radiating from her form. Alive, good. Yes. Paranoia was always his biggest problem, but it never hurt to just _check_ , did it? She leaned a little into his palm.

He halted, retreating. His hands were still _bare_. He felt the compulsion to put the gloves back on but rooted himself firmly in the spot. Panic ebbed and receded into his sense of duty. Velvet would cause static, and he didn't want to seem incompetent in his little task. He focused on gliding the brush through the tangles of her curls, gentle and precise strokes. When he had finished, he had forgotten about the gloves entirely. She smoothed a hand over the mass of black and turned to smile at him over her shoulder.

"Thank you. That was um - That was less awful than I expected. I suppose you _would_ be good at this, though - " Her eyes averted. "Mother doesn't feel pain, so I guess I thought - " She was uncharacteristically nervous, which amused a part of him that he had not felt in a long time. The rest of him, the familiar parts were just as nervous as she was - and _anxious_. "It was nice. Weird, but, uh, nice."

It was nice to catch her off guard, though, to _impress_ her. All of him agreed with that.

"Cicero can braid your hair, if you like." He offered quietly, scarcely having thought about the words before he said them, "So it doesn't knot while it dries. Cicero knows how much Ula _hates_ knots in her pretty hair." He just wanted to be near to her for a bit longer, that's all.

"Um, yes. Thanks." She nodded, turning away from him once more. "Could you - ?" He realized that she couldn't bring herself to ask him a favor, which he was appalled by. He was here because she was _The Listener_. He was _The Keeper_. That was the nature of their relationship. Didn't she know she could ask _anything_ of him?

Anything, least of all something small as this - whatever it was.

"Yes, My Listener?" He prompted. She reached to the vanity's table and produced a small bottle of sweet smelling oil. This, he understood. It was to keep the ends of her pretty hair looking nice, and to smooth the curls into something manageable. It was certainly not the _same_ as the preservation mix he used on mother's hair to keep the bugs out, but -

"Um, can you - I'll do it if you don't want to, but you do it so softly and soothing, I just - "

"Of course." He smiled. She _wanted_ him to do this task. Good, very good. He was happy to help. And she _liked_ him doing this. Said he was doing _well_. She was learning her place. And so kind about it, too.

Nimble hands went to work quickly, too eager to touch the silky hair again. It had already began to curl, so he had to act fast. Within a few minutes her hair was combed, the sweet smelling oil distributed through it evenly, and then braided away from her face. He felt very pleased with his work. When had he learned to braid hair? He couldn't remember, but that wasn't important. He was good at it, and she seemed to like it. Her palm moved over the thick braid as she swung it over her shoulder.

"Very nice, Keeper." He wished she had said his name, again. Oh well.

"No, no! Thank _you._ " He bowed with his head. "Humble Cicero lives to serve." He watched her as she stood, hands nervously smoothing over the robe to make sure everything was in place and properly covered. He liked the way the shape of her face looked without the billow of shadow-colored hair to frame it. Of course, the normal way it looked was great too - but this gave her a sense of innocence that he found nearly transformative. Her eyes averted from his countenance as he stood.

"...I'll be going, then. I must dress for bed. I suppose - I'll see you tomorrow, then." She smiled nervously - why was she so nervous? And headed for the door. She opened it, then paused in the door frame. "Um and...Thank you, Cicero." His breath caught in his throat.

Oh, yes. That was a nice reward. Formal Ula said his _name,_ formed the syllables with her sweet little mouth. He felt like flying - but he could probably settle for a cartwheel or two, maybe a backflip if he had enough space. He gripped the hem of his shirt giddly, trying to maintain calm as she shut the door.

His heart pounded in his chest. That was _some_ experience. Very different than what he thought. She made him _feel_ , made him human again, made him feel _real_ and -

He blinked a few times, thoughts halting as the world spun and closed around him.

The gloves.

He put the gloves on after he found them on the floor and took a deep, calming breath. He remained still, flexing his fingers now and again as he settled back into whatever semblance of normalcy he had left.

Yes, she certainly _was_ something. His eyes trailed to the door, and he finally felt the heat of the room get to him. There was sweat beginning to form on his forehead. His chest felt tight, and his mind drifted to The Night Mother.

Would she bless such a thing? Her loyal Keeper and Listener - Together? He couldn't be sure, and the only person who _could_ was Ulalume. Of course, he couldn't just _ask_ her to ask Mother. That was silly. Then she'd know how he felt! And then he'd be rather embarrassed. Foolish Cicero.

But Mother would want him happy, right? And Ula certainly made him feel _happy,_ and didn't he deserve that? He had found The Listener, after all - success! He wasn't sure _where_ such a thing - relationship? Would go, but as long as - He would do _everything_ for her. She was his second Mistress, his boss - But more:

She was his friend.

She made him feel better, soothed the pain and the anxiety and -

And oh, how his heart ached for someone to understand, for someone to accept him the way he was. To smile at him, to thank him. To recognize how _hard_ adjusting had been, someone who laughed _with_ him, not at. Who saw he was _more_ than the fool, that he had been _more_ , that it was all a mask and he was really something _else_ inside, and he could be that man again if he tried - maybe not completely, but by Sithis, for her he would _try_. He respected her, _trusted_ her. He would follow her even after death if she so asked.

Ulalume.

His maiden, _his Listener_ : the ruthless killer. And he: Her loyal Keeper, The Jester, Protector.

He decided it then. All that was left was to act!

The Laughter bubbled up in his throat.

Excitement!

...And then... _Shame._

The smile faded.

No, he couldn't. Even after everything, he did not feel that he was _good_ enough for Mother's _chosen_. He still hadn't - No - he was -

He would see what the coming weeks brought. His task was not yet over. Once he had completed his mission, then he _might_ be worthy. And even if he wasn't - She was kind, enjoyed his company. There was that, wasn't there? Doubt crept in, as it always seemed to do lately. Maybe _that's_ what Mother had intended? For them. He shouldn't be so greedy, wanting _more_ but - He _had_ to focus on his duty, bring Astrid The Pretender and the last of The Dark Brotherhood back around to the Old Ways. Then Ula could lead them back into greatness.

The rest would inevitably come later, _if_ it was meant to be.


	10. Killing The Smiles

**A/N: Back to Ula's POV**

* * *

My heart was beating so fast.

I angrily shoved the door open, hinges creaking and old wood splintering as it cracked against the cold cobble wall. Gritting my teeth, I searched the room for signs of the jester. I froze when I saw him lying on the ground, hands clutching his stomach in a pool of blood.

For a split moment, I forgot my anger. I forgot all the words I had wanted to scream at him. He was hurt, he was going to _die._ The gravity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks, and for that split second I almost ran to him.

Almost.

I shook myself, wholly committing to the path of vengeance I had been placed on. This man did not deserve my pity, he did not deserve my pause.

He wheezed, then, breath sounding wet and wrong.

"-Can't we _talk_ a little about this? Be civil?" He asked, voice weak and alien. "Cicero knows Ula is _angry_ , but-"

"No. I don't _want_ to talk. You've talked _enough_ for the two of us on my way through here." I answered. He pulled his knees in tighter, clutching his stomach desperately as he coughed several times. A spray of blood hit the floor, and it made my insides coil uncomfortably.

"...Mother wouldn't want us to fight." He responded. I advanced on him quickly, willing myself to just _finish this_ \- drawing my blade.

"-I don't care." I said, forcing my face and voice to be stone.

"Oh, sweet Ula can't lie to Cicero. You know it's _wrong_ -! I see it in your expression. Astrid pit us against each other on purpose! You...Know that, don't you?" I felt myself tense considerably under the slight tone of condescension he hid so expertly in his ravaged voice.

"I do. I'm no fool." I answer. "You think I'm doing this for _Astrid_? No - I'm doing this for myself." He pulled himself up into a half-reclining position, red stains across his mouth.

"Even if you succeed here, she'll _betray_ you-" He pressed.

"Like you did?" I made a fist around the hilt of my dagger. " _Like you-_?" My breath caught in my throat. No - no, I would not cry here. He would not get that satisfaction. He would _not_ know how much he meant to me, or how this thing he had done hurt me so much. His face registered surprise for a moment, pale and gaunt as it was.

"I-"

"You _ruined_ everything!" I continued, half shrieking: "I was so close - _we_ were so close! They were coming to our side against Astrid. You let your passion get the best of you and you've put us back to square one!" My eyes began to water. I was so angry at myself. I gulped down air to try and soothe my urge to cry, to calm my burning throat.

Wasn't I doing the same thing? Wasn't _I_ committing the same sin as him? _Allowing my passions to get the best of me_? I try to swallow this painful truth before it can take root in my conscience."You've proven you didn't trust me at all. You've proven - You've proven you never _cared_ \- "

"-I would do _anything_ for The Night Mother! I would do it all _again_. She was _disrespecting_ our Matron! And as for _you_ -" No. I couldn't let him speak about me - about _us_ -

Acidic bile rose but I forced that down, too.

"Astrid disrespecting The Night Mother - like she always has!? You let go of everything we had accomplished with the others for a moment of passionate rage. Tell me, Keeper, was it worth it?" His eyes searched my face, burning bright amber. His mouth opened and closed once, and I held up a hand. "No. I don't want to hear your excuses."

Silence reigned between us.

"...Will it change your mind if I beg?" He finally asked.

"No." I answered. He stifled a giggle, desperate and manic.

"Can't blame me for trying, can you!?" He gave himself over to it - laughing hoarsely, which gave way to a wince. I watched him squirm on the floor for a moment before making an executive decision.

"...I admit to being a bit curious, Keeper. What argument could you possibly have to convince me that I _should_ spare you?" I asked, moving closer to him. He flinched as I stood above him, as if I would kick him while he was down. The expectation hurt me a bit, but I tried my best to remain nonchalant. "Give me your reason."

He looks at me warily, countenance pale and weak. His eyes flicker back and forth between my face and the floor, and the wall just over my shoulder.

"I...I actually didn't believe you'd ask or give me the chance. Hm. Give Cicero a moment." Before I could retort, he gasped. "Oh! How about: I'm _The Keeper_!? To Kill A Brother Is To Incur The Wrath of Sithis! It should be obvious, dear Ula."

"Archaic rules are not good enough." I raised the blade with the intent for it to come down against him, but at the last moment I could not bear to kill him. He shut his eyes to prepare for a blow that never came. Slowly, eyes opened again and he slumped against the floor.

"...Well, at least you _hesitated_." The jester wheezed. "Cicero's life means nothing to the others. They would have found me and killed me with no pause. For that, I'm glad she sent _you_."

"...Do not mistake my hesitation for mercy. I just - I...Do not revel in the thought of killing a brother. I am purging a traitor to be judged by Sithis."

"Traitor!? If I'm a traitor, then so are _you_."

The dagger lowered slowly. "...Am I, Keeper?" My voice was suddenly tight again. "Am I a traitor?"

"...My... _Listener_?" He spoke the last part mockingly, and it hurt more than I could categorize in that moment.

"...Talk to me." I pleaded, pulling myself down to his level.

" _Now_ you wish me to talk. And what shall I speak of in these tense, final moments?" _Final moments_. My eyes worriedly glanced over his gloved hands, blood oozing between them. It was bad. Very bad. The wound looked angry and I feared if he moved his very insides would become 'outsides.'

"...Anything. Persuade me - you who has offered me the most council in these troubling times. Tell me what you're thinking." _Convince me not to kill you._

"Ah. Last words then?" He let out a pained laugh. "You're too kind to Cicero. My last thoughts are not so admirable or witty. I'm afraid I have no riddles or jokes."

"Tell me anyways."

"...There is shame. I want to beg you to reconsider, and I have never been a man reduced to begging. But - I am the Keeper - You are the Listener! She pits us against each other to rid us both of our presence. Don't you see? You are a pawn to her. She hopes we will destroy one another. That way she doesn't have to deal with The Old Ways. So she doesn't have to answer to either of us."

"That may be so, but it doesn't excuse what happened with Veezara. An innocent brother - marred by your blade. That's...That's breaking a Tenant-"

"And Astrid? Has _she_ not broken all of our Tenants?"

" _You_ were to be the example. Not her."

"What a poor excuse, my sweet deathbell." He sighed again, cheek laying against the floor. I flinched against the affectionate name. It reminded me of being small again, with dirty feet and ripped clothes. "A poor excuse indeed. You _want_ to kill me. I see it in your eyes." He frowned, pain etched across his face. "There is no convincing you otherwise. But allow me try, anyhow: to appeal to you by _groveling_ :" He cleared his throat, preparing for one last performance. He pulled his hands into a prayer position and made a pleading face. "Lie! Tell her I am dead! That you _strangled_ me with my own intestines! But don't kill me! If you spare me, you will gain a devoted servant!" It would have been a funny situation had it been literally any other time.

I bared my teeth at him in an angry snarl. "You face death as a joke?" He slumped against the floor again, having tired himself out.

"What more can I do?" He mumbled. "As a servant of Sithis, Death _is_ life. Kill or be killed. Make others see the glory of The Void. If I do not beg, I will be a pawn too, and we will fight. And that is not a fight I would or could want to win. I cannot kill you. If there is no Listener - then there is no _Brotherhood_. It's All or Nothing I'm afraid." I sat beside him, sinking to my knees. "Sweet Ula, don't _make_ me have to kill you. Don't make me hurt you. Cicero can't - He couldn't. And...Purification is needed, and you know it."

"The Rite of Purification is an arduous, complicated process passed and given by members whose positions no longer exist. No one authorized you to act in this way." I reminded him, voice distant. My mind was trying to escape the horrible situation, trying to fly far away. I realized that he was right. Today, these last few moments between us - would be final. I forced myself back into my body with great difficulty.

"There _is_ no one to defer to, like you said, so it is my duty to take it upon myself -"

"Me? Mother. I rank higher. Mother would have said, maybe. She is quiet on the affairs of her children, but surely - Surely she would have..." We were quiet for a moment. "...You know what you did was wrong."

"...The Fool of Hearts is tired. So...Very tired. Perhaps I _am_ a traitor. Misguided Cicero must have truly lost his mind to betray the one thing he worked so hard to become a part of."

"Maybe." I held my face in my hands.

"Ula thinks so, and that's all that matters to me."

"...You were out of control."

"So you must put me down? Sounds to me you've already made up your mind. I am then, I suppose, resigned to my Death. Ula no longer wants me to live, so I will perish. What is life's greatest illusion?"

"Innocence." I answered automatically.

"Yes. If you think me unworthy of life, then I am already dead."

He was right about that.

"...Tell me something." I stood again, wanting to put space between us. "Our friendship?"

"What of it?" He picked himself up from the ground, half-reclining on his bottom once more. I winced as a new torrent of blood began to ooze between wet velvet.

"...Was it all...Was all of it-" He stared up at me, eyes blank and face devoid of expression.

"...What do you _want_ me to tell you?"

" _Irrelevant_."

"Do you want me to tell you something that will make you feel better about executing me, or do you want me to convince you to leave and lie?"

"I was hoping for the _truth_." I answered.

"The truth...?" His stare broke as he shifted uncomfortably. "The _truth_ is...Cicero is glad to have had someone to listen to him ramble. Someone who was just as devout to Sithis and The Night Mother. I enjoyed our long talks, the moments spent in silent camaraderie. I enjoyed your presence, My Listener. It may have started at my trying to get you to see things my way, but... It changed to... _Something else_." His voice leveled as he straightened. "Although, I have to say: Most of all Cicero is pleased to have been able to open you up like a rock, peeking and peering and prodding, finding gems and geodes inside." Then, a sigh. "Oh, but I've ruined that, haven't I? You've clammed right back up again, twice as hard on the exterior. I see it in the steel of your eyes when you look at me. That's the most painful part, I think."

I said nothing. I was disgusted with myself.

"That makes it worse for you, doesn't it? That I know you. _That it was real_."

"...You've hurt me. And you _knew_ it would." I choked back a sob, rage etched on my face. "You still-"

"It makes me out to be wrong. Maybe it will help you kill me -? Sithis only knows. But...Does that make me a monster? Hoping for the best, hoping you'd see it my way? After blinding you to any other view left?"

"Yes." I answered. He laughed hollowly.

"I was doing what I believed was right. I don't regret it. Cicero only regrets that it hurt you, but it _had_ to be done." Then he squinted at me. "What are _you_ doing? Following your heart - or submitting to The Harlot's will?"

"I'm punishing you for wrongs committed."

"Punishing me? Or punishing _yourself_? After all, you're the one who-"

"Does it matter?" I muttered, averting my gaze from his countenance.

"No. I suppose it doesn't. Cicero will die either way." He mused. We sat in silence. "Though, I suppose it _does._ It's one thing to lie to others and another to lie to yourself."

"Hm."

"You owe no loyalty to Astrid." He reminded me. "Only to Mother. Do you not trust our Lady?" Lucien's words echoed back to me and I fought against acquiescence.

"I can't allow this. Even if it is wrong, even if there's a chance -The others would- "

"Home is where you make it, sweet Ula. I know why you hesitate. You want them to-" A rage exploded in my veins, hot and coursing. I spun around to face him, jabbing a finger towards him.

" _You_ were my home!" He flinched as if I had slapped him with my words. "The others - they just make it more real. And now you've done something that forces me to choose between them and you. I do not and _will not_ lie to the ones I love. Why risk such pain for the few I have? You've forced my hand, Keeper!" He shut his eyes against my words. I choked back another sob, this time the noise almost escaping. "...You've...Forced my hand. I can't lose their confidence. Maybe I can still salvage what we built. Maybe I can still rise against Astrid."

We are silent again.

"...I keep telling myself I shouldn't fight you. That you couldn't possibly be _serious_. " He muttered, drawing himself up. "But...I would never forgive myself if I died without trying. I told myself that if they chose you - and I knew Astrid would - I could _convince_ you, out of all the others, not to be a pawn in her game. I thought you might understand."

"You're thinking of _killing_ me? While I'm trying to tell you how I feel - ?"

"You're making the wrong choice! Cicero will fight you because you are wrong, wrong, wrong!" He stood with shaky legs, clutching his stomach. "I get it. The Fool of Hearts gets it, okay? Ula is mad at stupid, foolish Cicero because he chose Mother over you-"

It felt like my stomach dropped to my feet.

"-It isn't like that at all." I shut down, then, I think, numbing myself against anything else he might say. It was too far - too deep into things we never spoke about. The moment his blade sunk into Veezara's belly was the moment it was too late. "...Maybe it was, but it isn't anymore. I've decided." He studied my face, brow creased.

"..Anymore?"

"You...Aren't...You're sick. You're ill. I...I felt that if-" Realization smoothed out his features, all the lines of expression in his face. It made me feel nauseous. "I felt that if I said something, _anything_ about how I - How I felt about you, that it would be wrong." He said nothing, amber eyes like lanterns in the dim room.

He was trying to figure out what I meant. I felt foolish, confessing to him like this, felt dirty and wrong and so _awful_ and sick -

"...Why did Ula never-?"

"What for? There was never exactly...The time." I confessed. "And you're...You. You're...How you are." His shoulders, tense before, slumped out of shape. "This isn't the point I was trying to make." I became shy of his gaze suddenly, eyes forced to the floor. "It was wrong. I was wrong. And it never mattered. It wouldn't change anything here between us today. Maybe it would have made it worse."

"To you it was wrong, maybe." He answered. I forced myself to look at him again, trying to understand what he was trying to say. "Cicero-" He made a face that was akin to wincing, " - **I** think that...If I had known-...It would have mattered to me. It does matter." I felt myself turn to stone against his softly-spoken words.

"No. It doesn't. Not now. Maybe not even before. It's _pathetic_. I suppose I should thank you for showing me that caring too much gets me into trouble. I'll be sure never to make the same mistake again."

"I'm - I was different. Before, I mean. Cicero - **I** would have- _We_ could have -"

" _It doesn't matter!"_ I screeched, squeezing my eyes shut. "-It _can't_ matter, because -!" I felt my voice crack. "No matter how much you or I want it to, it doesn't change what's happened.. You're sick. Things happened to you. Now you're this way. I've only known you this way. It's how you are. Thinking about what _could_ have been, what _might_ have- It was foolish, a simple diversion - a want for something I never had. A place for me to rest. I don't need it. _I don't want it._ It shouldn't even be discussed. It's too late." I felt myself give into the grief. " _It's too late._ " My voice cracked again, and with that simple distortion I felt the knot my insides had made come undone. He stood, squaring his shoulders again.

"...Yes. I suppose you're right. Task at hand and whatnot." He reached for the dagger at his hip. It felt like my heart was ripping in half. "I don't suppose you'll go easy on me, will you? I'm not - I'm not what I used to be." He gave me a weak smile. "The years - they've left me a little rusty. And I do have a rather grotesque gash in my side. That overgrown sheepdog grazed me quite good - the only hit he ever got."

"...I can't say I'm surprised-" I said, drawing my blade to mirror him. "He's always been a bit slow."

"Oh, you mean physically as _well_ as mentally?" The jester let out a laugh, ending with a wet cough that made him grip his side in pain. "-Yes, I suppose you're right."

Then he lunged at me.

It was a whirl of blades. Jabbing, lunging, missing strike after strike, dancing just out of reach. Despite injuries both of us had sustained, the fight was one of the best I'd had. Tragedy formed a stone in my throat, always threatening to dislodge. Tears would only make me dead. Tears would cloud my vision, and I wanted to see his face as he died.

I wanted to see if there was an apology somewhere in there.

He had stumbled, wincing at the gash in his ribs, and it was when my dagger first bit into flesh. He gasped out in pain, and my walls broke down. The first tear slid down my cheek as he pulled away, squaring his stance with some effort. Hot itchy tears stung my eyes, blurred the vision so that I saw only his shape for a moment. I didn't care if I died, at that moment. I was - I was going to _kill_ him - the only person who had been my friend in a very long time. Why? What for? I lost all my rationalizations. Nothing could possibly be worth losing him.

"Ah-ha, look at that. I'm bleeding." He wheezed out a laugh. "Very good. Your form has improved."

"Don't." I muttered, voice thick with grief.

"You still don't have to do this." He said, then threw himself into a coughing fit. Blood speckled the side of his mouth as he breathed heavily, a wet rattle in his chest. "But I suppose the point is moot. I'll still die."

"I _must_ do this." I replied. "I must. If I want to save us, I have to make difficult decisions-" His eyes snapped to meet mine.

"She will _never_ let you have her position as leader."

"I don't need to be leader to make changes."

"You _should_ be." My hands lowered slightly, and I backed away a little."It's the way it's always been."

"Maybe we don't need the Old Ways anymore. Maybe Mother-"

"We will _always_ need the Old Ways. We will always need The Tenants." Another wet cough. Then he peered into my face, and his expression changed. The shift was so subtle it caught me off guard. He seemed almost at peace, as if he had made a decision - as if he was no longer in pain.

"Oh, The Dread Lord will not want this at _all._ May Sithis judge us both!" With a quick lunge he tried to slice at me while my guard was down. He nicked my arm and nothing more. In my surprise I retaliated without thinking, burying the dagger deep into the space between his ribs. He let out a breathless laugh as he slumped against me, face buried in my neck in a grotesque mock of an embrace.

Horror wracked every fibre of my being as he dropped his dagger, steel chiming against the stone. I screamed. He shuddered once, struggling to breathe against the blood that flooded his mouth. He drew back, smiling with red-stained teeth. His skin was so white it was nearly translucent. "Oh, good hit." He mouthed. Warmth spilled onto my fingers, and in shock I let go of the knife in his torso. He stumbled backwards a little, hand grabbing the handle. "To the hilt, even." He noted. "I'll die and bleed out as soon as you take the blade out. What are -" He spit out a gob of red and wiped his mouth, smearing a stain across his chin. "What are you waiting for? Complete your vengeance."

"No. No no." I panicked. My stomach fell to the floor and dread swept over me. "I-"

"Can't you do it? Or do you want _me_ to -" He tugged on the hilt and I shrieked in horror. He stumbled backwards onto his bottom, hissing in pain. I could still save him. I could do _something_. He couldn't die. I didn't want him to die. I had to _save_ him - did I have a healing potion? I think I did. I could get my pack - "I'm _dying_." He pressed, as if reading my mind. "...And...Painfully. Just...Kill me already. Or is this your true punishment?" I couldn't leave to get my pack. He would bleed out and die alone if I -

"I-" I rushed to his side, catching him as he dizzily fell backwards. I rested his head in my lap. "I'm sorry, _so_ sorry - I-"

"No. No no no, sweet Ula..." A bloody glove briefly touched my cheek, and I flinched against the tender caress. "Ula shouldn't be...Sorry. Never." He mumbled, words slurring. Languidly, he pulled the gloves off, pale fingers finally revealed to me after so many months of being hidden behind velvet. One hand went up to touch my face and he sighed. "Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Mother didn't say anything to you - she doesn't get into our business. Maybe we have to go through total Purification before things are set right again. Maybe that includes me. I have faith in The Dark Brotherhood. It will get through this unfortunate chapter, with or without me. Now please, take the blade. I...I am in pain."

After brief consideration...I wrenched it free of his flesh, and it made the most sickening noise.

I sobbed openly, the end was coming to pass so suddenly. I had hoped against hope that perhaps he would best me, and then I wouldn't have had to make a choice - that maybe _I would die_ \- I was so tired. Like him, I was tired too. Tired of living this way, tired of being alone. I was tired of struggling, of killing -

"-Forgive me for my outburst." He pleaded. "Please say you do, before I-"

"I...I forgive you, though I still harbour anger."

"That's okay." He winced as he moved his torso, twisting to see me better. I pulled the stupid jester's cap off of his head. "I can take it as is." I held him in my lap.

"...Cicero?"

"Yes, My Listener?" He whispered, voice hoarse. There was no mocking or condescension.

"...Why?" I wasn't sure what I was referring to. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. He seemed to understand because he smiled, teeth stained red with blood.

"I don't think we'll ever find out, now." He felt light against my skin, fragile. "Ula."

"Hmm?"

"...I'm sorry."

"For what?" I ran a hand over his tangled red hair, smoothing it away from his face.

"That you couldn't tell me. That I'm...Me. I don't want to dwell, but that's all I can think about."

"Don't waste your last moments on thoughts about me." I frowned.

"It isn't a waste." He said. His hand fell from my cheek. "...No. Not a waste at all." His breathing slowed. "I'm sorry."

"It's...It's okay."

"No. It isn't." He answered slowly, little more than a slur of vowels. "I failed you, somehow. For you to choose this. I deserve it." His eyes fluttered shut. "Sweet Ula..." He breathed. "I care for you more than all the blooming deathbells in the world. Please know that, before I - " Then a shudder, much like a shiver. "Mother? Is that your voice I hear?" A faint crease appeared in his brow as he tried to listen. "Coming...Mother..." He sighed, and his weight slackened.

The room was silent. The stench of blood invaded my senses.

My heart no longer had a home.

I would not let this sacrifice go unheeded. Astrid _would_ make The Dark Brotherhood great again, if we just worked hard enough. This tragedy would not be in vain. My choice would not be slandered.

I don't remember much of what happened next. I know that I filled the awful silence with sobs, screams of agony and loss and anger.

 _'Ulalume.'_ He had said rapturously, upon hearing my name for the first time. _'Sounds like a cry - a wail from The Void.'_

His voice sounded so strange in my head. So wrong.

After there was nothing left to exorcise from within, I became stone. I felt nothing. Numb. Even the anger had left me, after a few hours. His body was cold by the time I gathered enough strength to leave the room. It was wrong. He had always been so _alive_. Shuffling from one foot to the other, singing, dancing. On the rare moment he was still, his voice still carried - strong and shrill and lively as if it had its own will.

Had I made the right choice?

* * *

I stared off into space for a few hours after I had told Astrid what I had done. The others were overjoyed that the traitor was dead. I mourned him.

"It must have been very difficult." A small voice startled me. It was Babette. "I know you two were very close." She sounded almost sad.

"...Yes." I confessed. "It was very hard." She gave me a pitying look.

"He was charming. He lost my sympathy after he stabbed Veezara, however I understand why things happened the way they did. It is altogether unfortunate."

"Yes."

"Take my advice. Do not show Astrid that you mourn him. Throw yourself into work, if you have to. Mourn in quiet."

"Okay." I answered. She patted my hand.

"I will listen, if you need to talk."

"I don't need to. Thanks." She stood then, and walked out of the room silently. The rage surged in my chest again - as it had hundreds of times on my ride back to Falkreath - and as it had been, sorrow quickly replaced it.

I would not allow anyone to have this power over me again. And Astrid would pay.

Such grief, such distractions. I would steel myself against the world. I would not allow what-ifs to destroy me. I had made my choice and could only move forward. I only had to fulfill my responsibilities here, and then I'd leave. Too many memories. Maybe I could search for treasure in ruins, next. It was why I had wanted to come to Skyrim, anyhow. I would need to find someone to come with me, but that didn't matter.

I had things to do. Emperors to kill.

Jesters to forget about.

* * *

 **A/N: Sweet Cicero is not gone forever. Stay tuned!**


	11. Journal Entries 1

_After a bit of debate with myself, I've decided to keep a journal. Many things have happened to me in my life, and weeks spent in solitude and grief have made it quite clear that my psyche could benefit from writing down my feelings. A friend of a friend of a friend directed me to an enchanter who made journals for men in power - all I had to do was pay the fee and he would create one especially for me. I tracked him down a week or so later. It cost much less than I thought and later I realize that perhaps enchanting isn't as difficult as academics have made it out to be - but either way, the enchantment was simple: Only I can open the journal. The lock cannot be undone by any magic or physical force unless it is my will. I'm not sure exactly how it all works, but I need a place to vent my thoughts in private without fear of embarrassment, judgement, or self-incrimination._

 _Some brief summary is needed, I suppose, as to explain to myself why I found it necessary to do this sort of thing so outside of my character. Perhaps it is sort of a rationalization, or maybe my resistance is due to knowing that if I write things down I can no longer run from certain truths, as they become immortalized in ink._

 _The Emperor lays dead, throwing the tension between Skyrim and the rest of the remain Empire into chaos. I feel conflicted about this. In the short time I spent with him, he seemed to be a good man. And on a more political note, he seemed ready and eager to make himself a martyr. Perhaps, after the chaos dies down, that will benefit the Imperialist side of the conflict. I have much more to say on the war, but that is simply not the point._

 _Before I killed the Emperor, there was...An incident. I'm not sure how else to describe the things that happened, but..._

 _...Nearly everyone died back at Falkreath's Sanctuary. Veezara. Gabriella. Festus Krex. They were...Much beloved by me, and to say that their absence has not affected me would be nothing short of a blatant lie. Astrid perished as well, as well as her husband. The Penitus Oculatus found us, through her treachery, and they came to exterminate us. They nearly succeeded, had it not been for my partial intervention and The Night Mother's coffin. Babbette survived because she had been out on a contract, and Nazir was saved by myself. I was saved from the fires that were set by throwing myself into the literal embrace of The Night Mother._

 _We found Astrid, half-dead, in the ruins afterwards - covered in burns. She admitted her betrayal and bade me to kill her in fulfillment of the contract. I did._

 _Nazir, Babette, and I decided to move to the only remaining Sanctuary left on Nirn. Dawnstar. The place where - the place where Cicero's body had been left. We brought The Night Mother. The message was clear: Rebuild. So we refurbished much of it. Delvin helped, much of the money I procured from the Emperor's contract was given to this cause._

 _But...There was some complications._

 _Cicero's body...Hadn't...Decayed. At all. It had been several months, but when Babette looked into the room, he was still where I had left him. I had left him neatly, arms crossed, and he was still...There. Could it be the cold of Dawnstar? Could it be something else? Regardless, The Night Mother told me...The Night Mother Told me to keep him. Put him somewhere, but not to bury him._

 _I don't know what it all means, but I would not disobey the thing that allowed me to live through the fires at Falkreath._

 _In the meantime, I have decided to remain aloof from them. I know they need guidance right now, but I am not the one to offer it. Nazir and Babette have accepted that I need time during the rebuilding process, but I have pledged to be responsible to my duties as Listener and send them contracts given to me by The Night Mother in dreams and visions and have allocated resources for future recruitment. I have named Nazir as official Speaker in the meantime (Babette did not want that, but Nazir has been wanting/deserving a promotion as he is starting to get up in age.) and have allowed him to recruit as he sees fit._

 _Anyways, I'm taking a break from everything for the sake of my mental health, and with that I am starting this journal._

* * *

 **[10th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Riften**

Walked into the Bee and Barb; was met with equal parts disdain and apathy per the usual. They know me as a thief here, the one who does the shake-downs for The Guild. Ordered a meal and prayed to Sithis that the Argonian did not spit in it. I watched the patrons for a while, looking for my target.

Came on the suggestion of Delvin Mallory from The Guild, said this one was desperate to get out of debts and would be more than happy to accompany me to numerous Dwemer ruins while I picked them clean of the precious treasures inside. Mallory described him as close to my age, dark hair and amber eyes - an Imperial, like me. Easy to spot in the tavern, he said.

He was right. I spied him in a lonely corner, nursing a tankard of mead slowly. He was handsome in that cocksure sort of way that made me want to reconsider my choice - I could tell his type. We were not compatible. His life story was written in his blood.

Having lived in the Imperial City post-war, I knew what to look for. He was clearly from a noble line - maybe from a merchant-family; Since he was dressed nicely even though he had been described as destitute by Mallory. That meant he could pick quality, a rare skill in the lower class. I hadn't even seen some types of fabric before in my life until I moved among the nobility. I had no clue there was even different types of silk, let alone what the texture of velvet felt like.

I could tell by the shape of his face, too - He was Nibenesian, probably. Tan skin and dark, straight hair - the strong jaw screamed selective breeding, as did the shape of his nose. It was classic, straight, with a sloping bridge angled into brow - unlike most Imperial men, whose profile resembled the helmets they wore, with the bridge jutting almost straight into the browline, sometimes with a bump in the middle. He noticed me watching him but made no move to approach me. I could tell I piqued his curiosity but respected the prideful way he simply ignored me.

He did not want to appear presumptuous, that was clear. After some small debate with myself - mostly weather or not I truly needed someone else to help me in my little project - I approached him on his own turf, the bench in the corner - away from prying eyes and listening ears. I noticed his eyes measure me for a moment as I handed him the note I had prepared, and the five-hundred septims I thought worth my task. With suspicion, he set the heavy bag of coin on the bench beside him and carefully read the note. It detailed what I wanted from him -

I needed a mage. I was not versed in magical matters at all, despite my small interest in it. I worried about magical traps or puzzles within the ruins - or perhaps enemies that could utilize it. I could not get close to those who put up barriers and wards with my daggers or bow, and that could be potentially dangerous. I detailed how I would pay him the fee of his time and pay any expense of our journey as well as split a percentage of our finds in whatever way he wished to negotiate - which, to be frank, was more than charitable. The note suggested an easy compromise: What he picked up himself was his. What I picked up or asked him to carry was mine. We could keep inventory, if he so wished, so as to not be cheated of fair wage.

"This is a generous offer." He spoke slowly. He had a warm voice, something lower than a tenor but nowhere near baritone. The way he pronounced his syllables was very practiced and intelligent sounding, and it was then that I confirmed he was educated to the highest degree. I was proud of myself for not getting rusty - I had pegged him right on the nose. "...I accept the conditions." He stood, tucked the note into his breast pocket, and tucked the coins into a pack he kept nearby. I held my hand out to shake and he took it firmly into his palm. I quirked my head toward the door and we quickly exited the building."Where are we headed?" Thankfully, I had anticipated such a base question and had a note prepared. He took it with some confusion, a small scrap of a note that read: 'Dwemer Ruins in The Reach - Markarth'

"Silent type, huh? What's the half-mask for?" I shook my head negatively, then brought one of my fingers to my lips, as if to shush him. "Ah. Secret. I get it." His mouth formed a thin line, though his eyes sparkled with curiosity. I ignored it as we made our way to the front gate of Riften, passing by the guards - who gave us a silent nod of acknowledgement as they allowed us to pass. "You're with The Guild, right? I've seen you around. You shook some people up for money, right?" I turned my head to meet his gaze. "Oh, right. You don't talk. Well, I've seen you around, that's all."

Great. He was the sort to try and fill silences with useless banter. I could not say weather or not I would like that or not. My life had been a lonely one, so far - such is the life of a thief and occasional assassin. I had grown up on the streets - trusting only myself. Companions were few and far between, and I was never accustomed to sudden conversation. Well, there had been one whose company I hadn't minded - songs and riddles and jokes - but that already seemed like a lifetime ago.

But I don't wish to write of...Him.

...Now I've made myself sad.

* * *

 **[11th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Along Darkwater River, near East March**

The mage who calls himself Marcurio is annoying. I know why Delvin pointed me to him - he was having a laugh at my expense. I wish I would have known before I spent money on him.

He was trying to get me to talk earlier, and when I wouldn't, he got pissy with me and said something along the lines of:

"Such a peppy, optimistic attitude. I'm sure you're just a delightful conversationalist when you actually speak." I glared at him angrily, which only amused him. "That got your attention. You've been ignoring me! I was worried you were deaf, too." When I turned away in disgust, he sighed. "C'mon. The journey always feels so much longer when there's nothing to talk about. I'm bored. Hey! Why don't we talk about why you wear that mask? Are you in trouble with some mercenaries? Are you disfigured? Is that why you can't talk? I heard The Thieves Guild is now untouchable in all of Skyrim, so I don't see why you can't talk to me."

I said nothing.

"...Fine. Keep up the _Mysterious Act_ for all I care." He crossed his arms and pouted like a child. This was clearly a man who was used to getting his way.

He just better keep quiet when we sneak through the ruins! I've heard Falmer infest most of them, and if he blows our cover just the once - he's out. Maybe he won't even make it to that - if he says one more crass comment like that, I might just drown him in the nearest body of water and pickpocket my money off his corpse.

We'll see.

* * *

 **[13th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Along White River, towards Whiterun**

About a day, day and a half trek to Whiterun, if we keep on the main road. Didn't want to stay in any small villages due to the nature of my propriety. Folks in Riften don't know about the whole 'dragon' thing - only know me for my ties to The Guild. Have to be careful in this hold. More hopefuls wanting for me to fix their problems.

Pretty close to drowning the mage already - He keeps questioning my use of the mask and my refusal to speak. He has begun to guess and make speculations ranging from the preposterous to outright insulting. Hopefully, we can spend time apart at the inn. I can't hardly bear the look of his face, handsome as it is.

* * *

 **[14th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Whiterun**

An early morning start allowed us to arrive in Whiterun proper just after sunset. Unfortunately, this meant we were too late to browse shops for supplies. A hearty dinner at the Bannered Mare lifted my spirits some.

Observed the mage some more. Seems that he thrives in spirited atmospheres. He seems to be very charismatic and extroverted - the sort who soaks up songs and mead as others may gain energy from sunshine or quiet or mountain air. He made many comments today about the my lack of merry making. Wrote him a note saying that I was tired - that I was very adept at merry making when the mood so struck me. He accused me of being as playful as a skeever - which is to say, not at all. I was not impressed. I'm not sure if that proves his point or not.

My mind is on the ruins, though. I suppose the first course of action of any hunter - for treasure or prey, as it were - is to study for preparedness. When we get to Markarth, I would like to visit the Dwemer Museum in the Keep. I can see which metals are most valuable and size up what sort of traps and machines we can expect to come across, as well as figure out their weaknesses. I heard they run off steam and magic - perhaps frost spells would render them useless? Must broach the subject with the mage. Need to make contact with Calcelmo who runs the museum, as well. So much to do tomorrow.

Marcurio said something interesting to me, however, in relation to my fighting style - he saw the bow and daggers and knows of my Guild membership, so he correctly assumed my rogue status. (As if he could come to any other conclusion.) He was trying to be condescending, but I found the idea quite delightful: ' _Why simply stab your enemies when you can burn them alive with a bout of arcane fire?'_

...We may get along okay after all.


	12. Journal Entries 2

**[16th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Riverwood**

Yesterday was spent shopping for supplies. Marcurio's late night merry-making made him all the more unpleasant in the morning, as he complained constantly of head pain. I, on the other hand, feel rested - having utilized my time appropriately. Sleeping on a real bed always makes me more agreeable.

Ran into some problems today on the road, however. We followed the White River until Riverwood, and plan on taking the main road towards Rorikstead until we can cross into the Reach and find a shortcut pass into Markarth by way of the Druadach Mountains. If we have to go north towards Karthwasten, so be it. I don't like sticking to the roads. That wasn't the issue, however.

That being said, we decided to stay at the Sleeping Giant's Inn in town, but there was hardly any room there. It's largely my fault - someone had 'spotted' me (of course, they hadn't - I had been near Riften for the past few weeks - ) but as such I tried to keep a relatively low profile, just in case. As a result of the rumour, some wanderers had wanted to catch a glimpse of the Great Dragonborn of Legend and had taken residence in Riverwood. No one really knew what I looked like, however - even without a mask, if I had so chosen - but I was still careful. Thank Sithis for small favors, because I was not discovered. However, the problem of overcrowding still remained, regardless if they knew who I was or not.

As a result, I was frustrated to find only one room available. I almost considered staying at Alvor's and letting Marcurio stay at the inn, but I did not want to impose. I had not spoken to the man or his family since before -

 _...Since before the dragons._

I decided I was being foolish for the sake of selfishness and ultimately chose to suck it up and share the room with the mage. I decided to use the bath house out back. This morning - nothing interesting, mind - we had ran into a small group of bandits. I wanted to get rid of the grime and blood before eating dinner. The stench of death had left me when I had briefly washed in the river. It had been more than my hands soiled by their final moments, however - but I was not alone and could not simply wash my armor as I pleased.

The mage's interest in my countenance had only increased as the days passed, rather than subsided as I had expected. I had been unyielding in hopes he would realize I would not budge on the subject, however he only saw that as a challenge. My irritation with him followed suit. He would have simply burst out of his skin had I indulged him a peek whilst taking a damp rag to my armor - Sithis only knows how he might react if I had bathed in even his proximity.

I digress. The bathhouse was in better use than I expected. Nords were not notorious for their pristine hygiene, though they did not strike me as dirty people as some of my race might suggest. Those who accused the Nords of being filthy barbarians were always the kind that septims weighed heavily in their pocket and whose noses were always upturned to the sky.

In a sudden burst of manners, the mage offered to stand guard so that I may not be interrupted by a lecherous peasants or prying eyes. I hung a linen wrapping over the door handle to prevent any eyes peeping through the keyhole instead. Nevertheless I was flattered by the gentlemanly offer - despite my overwhelming suspicion that he wanted to use the opportunity to get a peek at my face - and perhaps other, more private assets.

Even so - It was for this reason, in a rare moment of charity, that I decided to offer him the bed in our room at the inn. I would sleep on the floor. He was simply appalled at the idea of a lady sleeping uncomfortably on stone, however, and insisted I take the bed and he have the floor. I argued that he had not gotten much sleep recently, but he still did not budge on the matter.

If he is trying to convince me of his valiance, he can continue to do so. There is no reward for it - _I would not reveal my face to him even if he proved himself a saint_. I would rather take that than annoyance, however, so it was settled. After I had excused myself to change into bedclothes and my armor was placed in the chest at the end of the bed, I locked the door. He seemed to try and study me, to try and discern my form beneath the heavy black robes. I had never appeared before him without any armor before this - only removing it once safe in my own tent or room. I allowed his curious gaze without reprimanding him, though I did feel a bit more aware of my movements during the short time I climbed into bed and snuffed out the candle light. It did warm my face a bit to be studied so by a man, but I did not dwell on it.

I went to sleep rather quickly, despite the awkwardness of the situation. Sleeping with the mask on was rather strange.

* * *

 **[19th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Druadach Mountains**

The mage is quite upset with me.

I never claimed to be an infallible navigator. I accused him of being unprofessional, the way he was carrying on and pouting. He threw he note back at me and told me in so many words that we should have done the pedestrian thing and simply taken a carriage to Markarth. I pointed out that we would not have run into bandits yesterday had that happened, nor would we have found some things to sell in their abandoned hideout. I also told him that the path we cut through the mountains was good, and that I knew what I was doing.

I was right, we are at the base of the mountains on the other side as I write this - though for much of the day he had his doubts. To lift his spirits, we decided to explore a nearby cave after setting up camp and found it to be an old burial sight infested with draugr. We found a unique axe within and decided to split the selling price when we arrive in the hold proper.

As an aside: Despite his personality and other shortcomings, I am always thoroughly impressed by Marcurio's mastery of magic, weather it is something simple as lighting our campfire or electrocuting a man to death. It reminds me of simpler times, but - well, reminiscing about past companions and kinship is useless. In any case, I respect his skill, and hopefully I too could obtain some grasp of it.

After the cave, we moved back down the mountain and to our camp. Being a bit high up, it is rather cold at night. I took pity on the mage as he shivered in the elven armor I had gifted him and lent him a few extra hides and layers to keep him warm while he slept. I think my dual nature confuses him. I have a compulsion to take, yes - but it is not one born of greed, like most thieves. I take, but I also give freely. Thankfully, he has had little qualms of my more kind side - especially after making sure he was comfortable in his own tent.

I am determined to make this project as smooth-running as possible.

* * *

 **[25th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Markarth**

I'll admit this now: but only _once_.

The mage - while a constant complainer, is an invaluable asset.

He holds both awe and contempt for the Dwemer for their knowledge and application of said thing, which denotes a special sort of critical intelligence I have not seen often in my travels. To add to this, he is rather astute at deciphering how to best dismantle traps - occasionally quicker than I am in their disabling. He has also - in record time, no doubt - become quite adept at understanding my body language. We can communicate rather smoothly without my use of notes - instead, it is all gestures. He has had little time to ask me about either mask or talking due to our whirlwind of a time within ruins - and I am glad for that. The intensity of such, shall we say, 'questions' was getting to be more than a simple irritant.

Dwemer Museum helped to understand the foes that lay within the ruins. The machines are most susceptible to frost, as I had suggested - but to Marcurio's delight they also can short-circuit through the use of electricity. Flame is never to be used as that could cause them to speed up, due to various qualities in their circuits. As someone interested in artificing, it was quite the read. The information, as assumed, was very useful. I was not, however, prepared for either the length of the mission nor the number of Falmer within.

Physically, the Falmer make me feel weak when I see them. They are grotesque and twisted forms of normal shapes - it's the blank faces with gaping mouths that most frighten me. They are savage, and all of my pity is lost on them once I saw how they cannibalized other, long dead adventurers. Despite my horror I still am infinitely curious as to what their culture is like - however, I am not the one to investigate such matters. By and large, I am no scholar and leave those pursuits to better-minded people. Interest does not always dictate a call to action. Besides, the giant bugs they use for both sustenance and construction are disgusting and I can't bear to even hear one close by, skittering horribly - without needing to itch.

Truthfully: I was glad to have a companion throughout this. The night and dark have always been my shroud, but sometimes it unnerves me that I may not be the most dangerous thing that lurks within. We spent two sleepless nights within the ruin, surrounded by the sounds of the steam and metal and the chittering of the chaurus. It was horrid, of course, and yet I found myself appreciating some aspects of it. The architecture is like nothing I have ever seen before, and the machines the Dwemer built are as deadly as they are fascinating. Even Marcurio expressed his desire to now how they worked after having their masters gone for so long.

When we arrived at the ruins, we immediately set up camp and ate something quick. While we ate, he told me that once - long ago - they had found a Dwemer in Morrowind. He talked about how crazy that must have been, to be the last of your kind. I think that he likes that I listen - perhaps he is unused to it. At this point, I think he only prods to sate that curiosity - not because it had bothered him, like it did in the first few days. He had suggested that he only does so because he likes to hear himself speak, not because he actually cares to find out. In fact, he told me, he worries that if he stopped - he'd have nothing to talk about after.

I genuinely hope he does not thing that my silence is from some personal hatred towards him. It is a necessity. I have a rather unique voice that I would rather not strain in trying to switch my tone and pronunciations. Life was much easier before people marked me as some sort of savior.

Frankly - it was unfair, though far be it from me who suggests life is anything but.

I did not ask for this so-called 'gift', it was thrusted upon me - either by circumstance or fate.

There are times I wish to share my insights with Marcurio - despite his rather pompous, grating nature - it seems he has grown on me slightly. I think it's because he is actually intelligent, rather than a scholar who simply regurgitates what he already knows. He is interested in expanding his mind, and he has had little qualms about my class or status as a thief, as I had originally expected. I am very unused to nobles who are not completely condescending.

Don't get me wrong - he can be very annoying and condescending - but it's not directed at me. For all his shortcomings, he does appear to be a man of merit and intelligence...

I wrote that before, didn't I? Well - his sarcasm can be off-putting, but the honesty and charisma he has about him balance things out quite evenly. That's all I'm trying to get at.

...This entry is becoming a bit long winded, so I'll try to wrap it up - my hand is cramping.

After we cleared out the ruins, we headed back into Markarth proper to sell the artifacts back to Calcelmo. I had the smelter there consolidate the scrap metal into bars, keeping a few with markings intact so that I could help the academia - and it all fetched a rather pretty septim. Afterwards, we stocked up on supplies for our next expedition. I felt like staying among people for another day, so we delayed in setting forth and stayed at the inn. We deserved the rest, anyhow, after two sleepless nights.

...I have decided to keep him longer. He appears to enjoy this decision - I did, after all, make him all the more richer in just one setting. We work well together, despite our personalities often clashing. We made a deal - if he pulls his weight in some of the expenses for the journey (where applicable and appropriate) We can remain mutual partners.

While in the inn, we heard tales of Red Eagle and recounts of the Forsworn issue here in the hold. Intrigued, I decided to gather as much information as possible while we were in town and Marcurio and I have agreed to refocus our efforts in finding such an artifact. No doubt it would be valuable - for both the scholarly pursuit and the septims. That being said, my desire to pick more ruins clean is not assuaged. Perhaps we will continue such an endeavor later.

I think Marcurio will find my attention is very fickle.


	13. Journal Entries 3

**[28th of Rain's Hand - 4E 203] - Markarth**

Fought through a ton of Forsworn camps in the past few days, killed two birds with one stone as I had picked up some bounties against them, knowing they did not trust outsiders. I don't really like engaging the Forsworn, as I don't necessarily agree with the Empire's policies concerning them - but when a man comes at you with two swords just for crossing the road in front of their captured territory, you don't really think about politics.

 _Attempted_ to approach them and remain peaceful to give them a fair and fighting chance, but the situation soon got out of hand as I shouted a greeting and a scavenger tried to put arrows into me for trespassing. Asked about the Legend of Red Eagle and his sword, was met with cutting words which only served to make my blood boil. More arrows, almost became a pincushion. They yelled something about me being faithless Imperial scum.

Me? _Faithless_? No. So I showed them who I worshiped by **killing them all**.

 _Hail Sithis_ \- and all that.

Plus - the bounty money was good, and I wouldn't have been able to justify the reluctance to be a puppet of the Jarl and rid himself of the nuisance of these misplaced peoples based on the value of their spilled blood. I can't bring myself to feel too bad about it.

Looted the place, had hardly any luck except that Marc found a book on the legend itself, which was a _bit_ useful - I confess. Text states that the tomb lies in a place called Rebel's Cairn, but I need the sword to enter. No luck on locating that. Apparently it's been passed down through the Briar Heart leaders. Of course, no records, all ceremonial and hush-hush - So I had to make a bloody path through the mountains to gather information. Constantly tried to engage in peaceful conversation only to be met with angry shouts and arrows, and I cursed my somewhat diplomatic nature. I am a rogue, and announcing one's self is Rule Number One of What Not to Do. Made easier with the presence of the mage to take on distant targets. We fight well together, though he thinks the way I've been handling things has been foolish. Had to kind of agree with him on that front.

Decided - after almost three days of hack and slash and zap, respectively- that even _attempting_ peace was no use, so I would wait until night to steal into the main camp system. Told Marc to stay behind. He became anxious. Told him _not to worry_ , I did this sort of thing for a living. Never got caught. Well, I wrote it down and threw the note at him. Was a little upset that he tried to say that I was bad at my craft without actually saying it. He made some stupid remark, can't remember it. I do remember scoffing at it though, which is why I know it was stupid.

Got in, got out. Easy.

Well, not really.

Didn't trip any alarms is what I mean to say, and I hit pay-dirt by finding a sword that matched the description and drawings in the book. Took it with me just to make sure, but unfortunately is was on the hip of one of the main Briar-Heart. Tried to take it while he was sleeping, no good. Stirred too much, worried that I would get surrounded. Slit his throat and covered his mouth as he thrashed and gurgled and ripped out the fake heart from his chest for good measure.

Sometimes they come back.

Took the sword off his corpse. Managed to slip out unseen, even with the big dumb sword strapped to my back. Damn thing is heavy, but I suppose that makes sense for some warlord.

Came back to our camp and waved the thing around all triumphant. Mage was in disbelief, but whatever. Confirmed it was the correct sword. Tomorrow we leave for Rebel's Cairn - which is less than a few hours walk from here. We should be there before the afternoon.

* * *

 **[1st of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Rorikstead**

 _I may have made a terrible miscalculation._

We were in the main chamber, fighting skeletons and drauger - when I saw Red Eagle's reanimated corpse rear back and inhale. I could not really have known that he would know the thu'um, could I? I knew what was coming when I saw that- having spent my time with the Greybeards. I didn't even think - I knew I could withstand such a thing, but not the squishy mage. Not without great injury, at least. I vaulted over a coffin, ran to him and planned to tackle him to the ground. I was a moment too late however - I did knock into him, shielding him from much of the blow - but I also managed to knock the air from his lungs. The armor he wore stabbed painfully into my ribs as we fell, and I was only saved from bashing my head into the wall by his instinctual protective embrace.

It wasn't until I felt my hair fall into my face that I knew my mask and cowl had been ripped off my head by the combined force of the Shout and the fall. Marc's eyes were very wide as they studied my face in that split second. There was no time for words, however, and we scrambled back onto our feet to fight.

In hindsight, I should have prepared better. I suppose a ancient sword guardian/warlord should prove to at least be an aggressive threat towards would-be treasure-hunters and grave robbers, but I can't _always_ have perfect foresight into such endeavors.

Red Eagle had been buried with some of his higher-ups, and they fought along side of him. None of _them_ , thankfully, had the power of the thu'um. I cut one down as Marc focused on the main corpse, alternating between fireballs and his favored lighting attacks. I managed to cut a path through to the other side of the tomb and switched out to my bow. One good hit to the brain felled the great beast of a man and the whole place went quiet.

Marc cleared his throat as I glanced at him. He was staring. "Should we - uh - Yeah." He ran a palm across the back of his neck, bright blue magicka still glowing there in the veins of his arm. He took the nearest urn and shook it. The clinking of coins sounded within like a bell chime and I turned from him.

We finished looting the place - and to my distracted delight, when found that when we exited the main chamber the sword in the keyhole had been rejuvenated and improved by the magic of defeating its owner. It would sell for even more - and there had been quite a bit of valuables stored away with the corpse as well. This proved to be a worthwhile venture.

When we could see sky again, Marc tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around, forgetting myself in my successes, and remembered that I was barefaced. He held out to me my half-mask and cowl, averting his eyes. "You uh, you forgot these. I found them. They're a bit dusty with uh, _dust_ , but -" I took them from him gingerly, careful not to touch his hand. I inspected them for a moment and decided they needed a good wash when we got back to camp, which meant that I was not going to put them back on. I stuffed them in my pack with undisguised disgust.

He coughed, trying to break the tension and the silence. "So, we _aren't_ going to talk about it then?" I glanced at him, and my very countenance seemed to unnerve him. "I mean, all this time I thought maybe you were a disfigured mute." He cracked a smile to show he was simply joking, but I found it a bit distasteful. The smile waned. "So...?"

I took in a deep breath, leaving him in anticipation for that much longer - "No, we aren't going to talk about it. Forget it ever happened." He stood awestruck for a moment, mouth hanging open. I frowned at him. "What?"

"I - I did not - I - I mean, you _can_ talk - I - I just didn't expect your voice to be so - "

"-Spare me your insights." I said, scowling. He simply stared for a few moments longer, then:

"Will you at _least_ tell your name _now_?" I felt my jaw tighten. "As it is, it's been three weeks and - I kinda...I mean, I know what you look like now. It's just - it might feel weird to say 'hey' and 'you' now, you know?" I glanced away from him. "Plus, haven't I been trustworthy so far? After all, we did agree to be equal partners. I think I'm owed a little more than when I was just a hired hand."

He was right. I pursed my lips, thinking and weighing the pros and cons before answering.

"...Ulalume." He was silent for a moment, processing. "This doesn't make us friends." The mage seemed to ignore my last comment.

"Ulalume? That's - That's a nice name." He stammered. "It really suits you. Sounds...Kinda like - "

" _Thank you_." I say, tightening my voice. This situation was too familiar, his reply echoed with someone else's and I couldn't bear it. "- Can we please just - ...Let's just drop it and get back to camp, okay?"

He glances at the entrance to the tomb, then looks at the rocky hillside surrounding us, and when he looks into my face I suddenly clam up and feel horribly vulnerable. He smiles that terrible, attractive smile - the straight-toothed one, the kind that makes dimples in his tanned cheeks and his eyes twinkle like flames of a bonfire, and I feel something curl deep in my stomach. It feels like fear. It feels like nervousness - like trepidation - and I can't help but get angry at myself for allowing him to affect me so much.

"I'll follow your lead, Ulalume."


	14. Journal Entries 4

**[2nd of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Along River Hjaal**

He glanced sideways, trying to catch my eye.

"I wish you'd stop that." I mumbled, voice low and barely audible. He simply shrugged in response.

"No - it's - It's just... Awkward, that's all. We never spoke about what happened in the tomb yesterday." He replied. "Not really, at least."

"We don't need to." I say, absently fingering the mask - making sure it was put right, not loose.

"Oh, come on." He flashed me a straight-toothed smile, which I promptly ignored. I let the silence drag on between us, hoping it would make him be quiet.

It didn't.

"Well...Your face..Is a good face. You needn't worry." he blurted, words stumbling in nervousness - he obviously hated the disquiet between us. I said nothing for a moment, just narrowed my eyes at him in disgust.

"Oh, _no_ you don't!" I hissed, lip curling up into a snarl. If only he could see it - if only my voice and the effect was not ruined by the half-mask. "You aren't going to start with that. We aren't going to -"

"What?" He feigned ignorance, putting a hand to his chest in mock shock. "Why, I'm just trying to boost your self-esteem! It's a good face. Trust me, I've seen lots of faces, and the one you have is a good one. Lots of maidens would sell their soul to a daedra to have your face. I don't know why you hid it."

"It isn't about the way it looks, obviously." I muttered, turning away from him so he was free from my gaze. He stared at me, stupefied, slack jawed - I'm sure - for a few beats. "What, you can't imagine a girl who isn't phased by her prettiness? The whole world doesn't revolve around what men think, you know. Nor does it matter how I look. I don't exist to be pretty nor do I put value into it.."

"Only pretty girls can say that." He argued. "I've never heard a woman share that feeling unless she's pretty. It's privilege that creates naivety. Ultimately, prettiness _does_ mean something, even in the eyes of other women. Prettiness denotes virtue in many cultures. It surely _does_ have an impact that you'd be hard pressed to deny. Not saying that it should, but it's hard to ignore the place it has in society."

"That's not what I meant." I replied, casting a sharp look of irritation in his direction. "I know that. I'm a woman living in a culture that puts value into physical attractiveness. It doesn't mean I like it or put personal value into it." I chewed on my lip for a moment in thought. "...Anyhow, It isn't the reason I hide my face."

"I thought perhaps you were disfigured when we first met. A terrible accident of some kind, maybe."

"So you've said." I cast him an discerning look. "I bet you're relieved, aren't you?"

"Not for the reasons you probably think."

"So it _isn't_ because you can't stand to be near anything that doesn't fit your definition of perfect?" I cast a glare at him. He mirrors it right back at me.

"I was intrigued. However, _now_ my curiosity has been satiated. It's as simple as that. And you know - I don't know why you regard me with such unwarranted _vitriol_. Have I done something personally to offend you?" I placed a wall between us, metaphorical and yet still so very solid. I needed to push him, place him at arms length - somehow he thought we were _friends_ , made obvious by the hurt in his tone. I didn't know how he got so close so quickly, but he needed a good shove to put him in his place.

"Besides suggest for days that I was probably an ugly mute, as if that wouldn't hurt my feelings or dehumanize me in _your_ little cushion-y world? You're obviously of noble lineage, what with your talk of the Arcane University without a care. How do you think that would mark me in the upper echelon? I would be cast aside. Mocked. At the very best, I would have been spoken about in piteous but amused tones at regal parties I would not be invited to. _You insulted me_. And - What if I _had_ been disfigured? You'd feel awful right about now for making such obscene jokes." He pursed his lips in thought.

"You have a point." He admitted. "I'm sorry." I was silent, angry. "But I can't change where I come from, even if it happens to be a place of privilege. I _do_ , however, recognize that what I said in jest was wrong. I didn't mean to offend you." I scoffed outwardly, snorting in a decidedly unladylike way.

"Well well well, the noble _can_ apologize. If only they did it _before_ having to be shamed into it." He rolled his eyes at my sardonic tone.

"Forgive me for trying to make civil conversation."

"Oh yes, a non-noble like me can't possibly make for good company." I growled, fists clenching. An angry heat raised to his face. I had offended him. Good.

"I'd ask what the nobility have done to you, but I think the point is rather moot. _I_ have done nothing personally against you - and you'd do well to remember that." The silence hung heavily between us.

...He was right, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me admit that to him.

I felt him staring again after a long while.

I sighed in irritation and he snapped out of his musing. "You're doing it _again_!"

"-I can't help it. Your irritated expression is enrapturing. I have to admit, I'm a bit taken with you." He grinned lazily, wiping his hands on the front of his robes. I rolled my eyes.

"Did you not learn your lesson? Your quips are done in poor taste - And I don't appreciate the staring." I say, voice tight. "You are mistaken if you think flattery will give you permission to do so."

"...It's just so odd, to have never heard your voice and to have never seen your face, and yet for weeks we have been less than an arms-length apart." He paused, then said after some careful thought - " It took this long for me to finally see you."

"Aaaaand we're talking about this again. For a scholar, you sure do dwell on useless things - though I suppose as a scholar that _is_ what you do, no?" I murmured, gaze cutting across his features. "Besides - You _hav_ e seen me this whole time, haven't you? Just not - You know." I gestured to my face, but he averted his eyes.

"You know very well what I meant." I didn't. "So... _Why_ do you cover your face?" He asked, this time choosing the direct route.

"I don't owe you an explanation." I answered, frowning deeply. He let out a sigh.

"You're right." He replied, voice hardening. I watched his expression melt into one of disappointment and acceptance. "You don't." He averted his gaze to the road ahead of us, wholly detached from his curiosity. It actually upset me - how could he be so interested one moment, and then totally shut it off the next?

Silence hung over us again, unfortunately all too familiar. It was almost another hour before I spoke again, irritation and anxiety forcing me to tell him.

"I _want_ to tell you." I confessed. This intrigued him - causing his eyes to trail over my face. "...I didn't mean to be so - upset. Earlier. I'm guarded for many reasons, and none of which are your doing. You're right that I should remember that, and for that I apologize for taking it out on you. I wish I _could_ tell you why - but I doubt you'd even believe me - and as it is, I have little in the way of proving it."

"You aren't some long lost and exiled princess, are you?" He scoffed. "That would explain your disdain for noble families." My eyes just searched his expression.

"No, obviously." I said, a nervous lilt to my voice. "Why would you even suggest that?" In truth, if I _was_ some lost heir to the throne, I would have no idea. I was inclined to think the answer was _no_ , though. No one had looked for me, at least. They said the dragonborn lineage _was_ considered heir to the Empire as it made one an honorary Septim, but I doubted that rule remained.

"I dare say it is _not_ obvious." A corner of my mouth twitched down at his lack of seriousness. "You certainly look like royalty." He grinned. I felt a muscle in my jaw tighten.

"...Look, if you don't want to know, then I won't tell you." I huffed, averting my gaze from his. A prickle of heat moved across my face, both out of embarrassment and anger.

"No! No no, I do." He raised his hands in surrender. "I want to hear. Please?" I stopped suddenly, pausing in the middle of the cobbled road. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I scrubbed her face with my hands. Was I really going to spill such a secret? A secret I myself barely believed was true?

"Promise you won't freak out?"

"I can't promise anything of the sort. I have no idea where this is going." He answered honestly. Sensing it was that and not sarcasm, I nodded nervously.

"Right, you're right." I wrung my hands.

"Of course I am." I was silent for a while, thoughtful, if not a little put off on his condescending tone.

"...Realize, I haven't told anyone this yet-" I began, but he interrupted.

"-I can't really handle a nervous breakdown on the road. Do I need a drink? Maybe _three_ before I hear this news?"

"No." I frowned deeply, irritation reaching into my voice, then considered his question. "Well, _Probably_ not."

"That does nothing to soothe my worry, Ulalume." I was still, as it was the second time he had spoken my name. It was odd to hear someone speak to me so familiarly after months of being alone. Sure, there had been the Guild months before - and then The Brotherhood, but after the - After what happened there, I had cloistered myself and spent much of the time between then and now in silence and lack of company. Truth be told - when I had spoke out loud yesterday, it was the first time in weeks. I gathered myself together before speaking, trying to recapture the moment.

"Will you please just listen?" I asked, already exasperated. He crossed my arms, gifting me with a smirk.

"I'm all ears." He said. I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, eyes darting everywhere but to his face.

This was a lot harder than I thought. Would he even believe me?

"Um okay, so..."

"So?" I said nothing, too hesitant to speak and form words. "Ugh, can we please just get on with it?"

"- I'm the Dragonborn." I said, quickly - eyes locking with his. He stared, stiffening.

"No, you aren't." I frowned at that. "You can't be. Why would you need _my_ help?" A swift anger came over me.

"Excuse me?" I growled. "I _am_ The Dragonborn. It doesn't make me some sort of god or anything, like the stories suggest. I'm just - I'm a person, but I'm also...I'm also this _thing_ \- and - I just - I just don't really _want_ to be."

"That doesn't make sense. It's not like you can choose weather or not you're a fabled hero." He scoffed. "Now stop joking around and tell me the _real_ reason-"

" I _am_." I pressed. " I'm telling you the truth. I - I _killed_ Alduin, Eater of Worlds. I thought it was some sort of fever dream. I killed a demigod and then I stumbled down High Hrothgar and never returned. I've been laying low ever since. I'm actually kind of terrified The Grey Beards might have someone hunting me down - though, I guess, in hindsight, I doubt it. My usefulness to the prophesy has been completed. Hopefully it will fade into obscurity." I saw in his face fear and panic, then acceptance, which quickly moved into curiosity.

"Can you, like, do shouts then?" I wrung my hands again, nervous.

"Not really. Well...A few." I murmured. "I don't like to. It's like - It makes it real, and I don't want it to be real. It can't be real. I'm just me. I mean, I've done some incredible things, but - "

"Show me. Perform a shout. Then I'll believe you." Somehow, my frown deepened.

"I just _said_ I don't like to, and now you want me to do something I don't like?"

"It's perfectly reasonable to want proof of such a bold claim!" He gestured with his arms dramatically. "What, do you just expect me to take it at face value? You must realize how unlikely and _crazy_ it sounds to say you're some mythic hero who stopped the end of the world."

"-Y-you want proof?" I clenched my fists angrily. "...Fine, I'll show you _proof_ , mage."

Before I realized what I was doing, I began to inhale deeply - the cold winter air filling my lungs to the brim, and a surge of power alighted in my veins - the whole world seeming more focused than ever - and I was dizzy - and then -

 ** _Fus!_**

This created a terrible gust of wind, which picked him right up and threw him on the ground several feet away. I went to him, stood over his sprawled body - a triumphant grin on my lips.

"So! Do you believe me now?" He wheezed out a response in affirmation, dazed from being thrown even such a small distance. I couldn't say I pitied him at all."...I figured to tell you before we run into dragons, and my secret would be out. I preferred that you hear it from me before witnessing the whole - soul eating thing. It's - It's probably jarring. Plus, I mean, you've already seen my face. I can't have word circulate that I'm the Dragonborn - I don't need the fame. Not with _my_ line of work. I'm sure you understand." I extended a hand out to him, and he grasped it and stood with my help. He wobbled upright on shaky legs.

"So if I tell anyone you'll kill me? By Julianos, I wish I hadn't asked." He wheezed, clutching his stomach. I only felt a little bad.

"...It really is _your_ fault. You pressed."

"How was I to know? I was _trying_ to get to know you better, not get thrown across the road." He muttered, air coming back to him slowly. I looked at him curiously, eyes narrowed.

 _"Why?"_ I asked, suspicious of his intentions. He rolled his shoulders, trying to compose himself.

"Isn't that what people do? We're stuck together for quite some time while we do jobs. Figured it would be nice to be comfortable with each other. Talk a little, whatever." He explained. I hadn't considered this possibility. I frowned at him again.

"I see." I answered, then turned on my heel and began to walk down the path.


	15. Journal Entries 5

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. One day behind is still late. :/  
**

* * *

 **[ 3rd of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Along River Hjaal; Base of Hjaalmarch Range**

I had been meaning to apologize, maybe explain myself to him in a way that he might understand. It took most of the day to figure out exactly what it was that I wanted to even say - let alone how to phrase it. In the end, I scrapped out the speeches I had prepared and settled for something far more simple.

"Tell me about yourself." I said, settling in beside him. He seemed startled for a few moments, eyes studying my expression. He pursed his lips after that - then sighed and looked into the fire.

"I suppose there's no harm in that, is there?"

"Doubtful."

"Is this your way of apologizing?" There is a ghost of a smirk on his face, and I find myself smiling the tiniest bit in response.

"Perhaps."

"...Okay." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then - "I grew up in Skingrad." Of course he did. Skingrad was the second largest city and also one of the wealthiest. Skingrad was where you went when you had to pick up an expensive wine or cheese to snack on while buying bolts of silk. "Then I moved into the dormitories at the College of Whispers - part of the Arcane College? It was a decision made at both the prodding of my own parents and one of my own volition." He leaned forward lost in thought.

"I had talent for magic at a young age, naturally. My family, hailing originally in the east as part of the Niben Valley - are strictly Nibenesian. Hence the magic and class." His mouth upturned into a jestful smirk, and he waited for me to say something - perhaps to express how impressed he must thought I would be, or offended. When I did not say anything at all, he continued.

"...I was a mischievous child, I guess you could say. I practiced my magic on others often. Small things, nothing serious - just pranks. I had a happy childhood, I suppose. I was spoiled as the first and only son and child of the Helenius noble line."

"You're a spoiled noble? I couldn't tell." I scoff at him, but it was meant to be good-natured. He squints at me for a moment and must have realized my harmless intent because his mouth is pulled up at one corner when he continues his trip through memory lane.

"...Things weren't so bad until I was older. My mischievousness turned into trouble-making once I hit a certain age. I was a teenager, and magic was this _powerful_ thing - and the world was so wide. Girls, boyhood fancies - it just made everything more intense. I was constantly trying to impress everyone with my talent. In my defense, I most certainly did."

"How did you parents feel about that?" I ask, making a conscious effort to seem engaged.

"...My parents?" His face fell some. "They were less amused with my antics and merrymaking than I was - by a good measure. They couldn't have a son who amused himself by rowdiness and lascivious behavior. You see, my family is wealthy and well-respected. We're in the mercantile business, where reputation and names carry weight."

" _Lascivious_ behavior?" I raised my eyebrows at that. He seemed almost offended at my disbelief. Marcurio is very handsome by his own right. It wasn't that I didn't believe him, it was that I found it to be a terribly odd way of phrasing such things.

"Yes. I was quite the ladies' man in my youth. Still am - " He cast me a flirtatious grin and I rolled my eyes. " - but I settled down a _bit_ since then. It can be exhausting."

"Look at you, saying 'in my youth' like it was so long ago." I teased him, which felt nice to do after so much seriousness. In actuality, I couldn't directly pin-point his age by his face. Marcurio was young - but not so young that he looked fresh-faced from the blush of boyhood. He was most certainly my age or older, but how much older I could not tell. He was either just hitting his thirties or somewhere in his mid-twenties, but the curiosity of _exact_ knowledge got the best of me.

"Well, it _is_ nearly a decade past. I was sixteen." I made quick calculations in my head.

"You're in your 26th year? Huh. I'm in my 23rd." I say to him. He doesn't seem surprised that I'm younger than him at all an even remarks as such. "...So what happened next?"

"My parents wanted more for me, of course. I don't blame them, but they shouldn't have begrudged me upon adolescent mistakes. Their aspirations were much higher than what I had in mind. Government positions, becoming an arch-mage on the panel for the college, perhaps taking an Empirical Court position that would lead me to some count-hood." He took in a deep, stabilizing breath. "...I didn't really want any of that."

"What did you want?" I ask, genuinely interested. Marcurio seemed like a man who reached for social power. It surprised me that he wanted none of that sort of thing at all.

"Well, at first I wanted to take the easier path in life. I wanted to remain an acolyte at the college, be a full-time scholar with some cushy position. Then as I grew bored with reading textbooks, I had aspirations a little more in line with their own - I enlisted with the battle-mage program in the Imperial Army." An idea occurred to me, and I peered curiously at his hands.

"...Is that the reason your hands look slightly calloused? I'd been meaning to ask where you got them. Now I know they are sword-marked palms. I wondered what a mage who didn't have to work for a living got callouses from." He smirks at that, probably flattered that I had noticed such a small detail about him. Perhaps he took it as interest rather than what it really was: study.

"Yes. I studied swordsmanship. Good eye - though I shouldn't be surprised." He sobers slightly. "I know different forms, even. 'Imperial military training emphasizes diversity and knowledge,' as they say. Above all, I am well-versed in the standard Empirical form."

"So, you're proficient at one or two handed blades?" I feel a crease form between my brows, trying to imagine this man beside me wielding a great-sword. I can't.

" _Proficient?_ " He repeated the word with slight disgust. "No, I'm an _expert_ swordsman."

"Oh, well _excuse_ me." I roll my eyes. He casts me a mischievous grin in response.

"Yes, well - I studied single-handed blades, specifically because it leaves one free hand open to focus my magic."

"Lefty or Righty?"

"My sword arm is my left, even though I write with my right. My magic is dominant on my right side, so I had to overcome that handicap."

"Interesting." I muse. Now I know how to disarm Marcurio, in case the need ever arises. It is doubtful that it will ever be useful information, but it makes me feel better to have something to file away. "...So. Magic. I know almost everyone has some innate ability to perform magic, but I assume yours manifested somehow more flashy - as most mages seem to tell me."

"...Well, yes. I was quite young, actually - younger than most mages I know." He stared off into the fire, chewing on his bottom lip. "Magic was never scary for me. Almost my whole family line has magic in them in varying degrees. My house specifically is all comprised of mages and wizards, though not nearly enough of them actually applied their abilities to any one use. It just seemed like I was waiting for the day when _I_ could cast a simple spell."

"I just imagine you as a little boy, waving your arms around frantically, hoping to conjure flame in your fist - or perhaps shoot ice."

"An apt description of my child-hood, actually." He smiles absently, eyes softening with memory. "My first ever spell was an accident, actually - I was upset and I set my poor mother's lace curtains on fire."

"What, she would't let you play in the money vault so that you could pretend to swim in septims?" I joked. He furrowed his brow slightly, but when he spoke he did not sound offended in the least, as his words might have suggested.

"No, I was angry that my father was going on a business trip and was going to miss my birthday...Again."

"...Oh." I frowned deeply. "...So, I'm guessing there's some tension there." He looked away again, and I saw his shoulders pull up defensively.

"My parents and I never had a warm relationship, no - especially not in relation to my father and I. He's a very business-minded man and not well versed in affection. My mother is equally cold, though not through any malice. They are very poised and careful people, that's all."

"...Oh. Well, now I see why you went all wild." He seems startled at my apparent insight of his personality.

"What?" His golden eyes are wide with surprise. I shrug.

"You were looking for something to fill what you thought was too empty." I said. His head turns slowly back to the fire, gaze fixed on some point in the distance.

"Oh." Was all he said. I shifted uncomfortably. I hadn't meant to cause him some sort of personal crisis or epiphany.

"...So, how did you come to be in Skyrim?" He seemed to shake himself free of whatever he had been feeling.

"Uh, ah - yes. _That_. Well, I was formally discharged from service after training under the battalion for a few years, graduating from both the arcane and military academies with high marks, and then I set my sights on my _true_ desire. It was the reason why I had enlisted in the first place, unbeknownst to my parents: I wanted to study ancient ruins."

"And here we come full circle!" I interrupted a bit excitedly. He cast me another quick smirk before continuing with his story.

"Yes. In school, I had versed myself well in Nordic/Atmorean architecture and symbolism, as well as brushed up on their history. Afterwards, I set my sights on the Dwemer. There were so many unanswered questions about these two ancient societies that it just seemed natural to travel to the Velothi Range and Skyrim itself to see both _in person_ to assuage my curiosity and questions... At first I desired to go as an extension of the college, but they did not want to fund any such expeditions. You'll find in Cyrodil that most academic-scholarships are geared toward study of Ayelid technology."

"So, why didn't you do just _that_ instead?" I questioned, though I was only asking to advocate for more information.

"And give up?" He scoffed. "No. I knew what I wanted. I knew there were opportunities in Skyrim I could not have in Cyrod. So, I just shrugged off the rejection letters and started packing my things."

"How did your parents react?"

"...Ah...Not well, as you can imagine. Going as a retainer of the college would have been an honor. Going by myself and spending personal money was not. I would have no company or group to protect me, and naturally that made them worry - never mind that I was formally trained in the army. They were very scared for me, and their social status, too. It was... _Slummy_ to embark off on my own after such rejection." He paused, a flicker of an expression flashing across his face. I could not read it. "...They disowned me. Told me never to come back. I think they thought that would make me stay. It didn't. You'd think they would have been proud of me, striking off on my own, trying to accomplish great things - perhaps become a famous scholar due to my discoveries. They weren't at all. They were _horrified_ at the prospect of my leaving.."

I floundered for something comforting to say, but I confess I am not very good at empathy. "...They couldn't have meant it, you know. You're the only heir they have." He frowned at that, and I wondered if I had somehow said the wrong thing.

"...No, but it hurts to know that they meant it when they said it. As well as being reminded that I am also only of value to them as a way to continue their line."

"...It...Must have been rough." I said, trying to remedy anything I may have said to offend him just then. "It never occurred to me that having absent parents might be worse than none at all." Realization seemed to cross his features.

"...You were orphaned." I shifted again, uncomfortable with the turn of events. I figured I owed him a _bit_ of personal information, what with all his talk of childhood.

"Much worse than that, actually. I never knew my parents at all. Local legend in Bravil states that I was found abandoned on the side of the road coming from the Imperial City - where I would be found easily and quickly. No identifiable markings, signs of struggle, or notes were found with me, so they say."

"And the truth?"

"The truth is, I don't know, exactly. The facts state that a Khajiiti caravan found me, brought me into the city at risk of being arrested for suspected child-theft, and then raised me as one their own." I paused. "Well, that's not entirely true. They fed me and kept me safe, but they raised me and made sure that I knew where I came from was a mystery. After all, I did not have fur or ears like them. I would have noticed, obviously. They tell me that there was nothing that stated who I was or whence I came from. The blanket I was wrapped in was a common swaddling material across all classes. I had no ring or rattle or note."

"Wait, you grew up with the Khajiit?" His eyebrows raised far on his forehead in intrigue and surprise. I grinned at that.

"I knew that would interest you. Yes, I did. Their culture is very unique - but they raised me as an _Imperial_. Well, as best they knew how. I was welcome to any of their own celebrations, but largely they let me choose what I believed in, and what I wished to practice and accept as truth. I had books on the history of the empire, guidebooks to each city, and I immersed myself into that life as much as I could. I'm Imperial, through and through."

"Do you at least know if you're Colovian or Nibenesian?"

"...No." I answer. "I know it matters to a lot of people, but _I_ don't really think that it does. I'm pale like the Colovians are, and my eye color suggests Colovian as well - but my hair is dark, my build is not so much stocky as it is thick, all this; and my facial structure suggests Nibenesian. If you can't pin me down to one blood by look alone, then I suppose I'm both." I shrug and he looks slightly horrified and confused. "What? I just say _Imperial_ \- as most people outside of Cyrodil don't see the difference anyway, much to the chagrin of you nobles, I'm sure - what with your bloodlines being so important." He sobers significantly after processing this information.

"Ah." He says, "Well, I can't say I can discern what you might be either. I suppose that's the prudent approach, then." He looks at me carefully. "So, why did _you_ decide to come to Skyrim?"

"...Among other reasons, I sought to seek my fortune. There's treasure to be had here. I went through some...Things in the past few years that I'd rather not share now, so in response I threw myself into my original goals as distraction from what happened."

"Oh."

"Yes, I'm afraid it was nothing as dramatic as your story."

"What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic." He grinned a straight white-toothed smile. I noticed his cheeks dimpled slightly as my eyes fixed on his face.

"Quite." I say automatically, studying his countenance absently. "Quite indeed." His eyes swept my face as well, though he leaned back as if to put space between the conversation we just had and what he was about to say. He opened his mouth once, then closed it without speaking. Then after a moment of consideration, he said:

"...Listen. I'm sorry if I had offended you with my casual flirtation before. Or the - you know, the comments made in jest. I really didn't mean any harm. Now that I know a little more about you, I think I understand a little more - " I reared back too, as if he had just slapped me. His tone was almost... _Piteous._ I couldn't have that at all. It felt like he was staring down at me from some higher place, and throwing me a septim for my trouble of kneeling in the dirt before him.

Staring at him wide-eyed and offended slightly, I felt my lip twitch up into an almost-snarl when I responded:

"-You know _nothing_ of me, mage. So _what_ that I told you a little story of myself? I don't need -" My voice caught in my throat, I was so upset. " _Spare_ me your _pity_ \- " His response was just as volatile, and it was in that split second of pause between my words and his that I realized it had been difficult for him to apologize in the first place. I rationalized that he shouldn't have done so in the first place. He was being _condescending_ , in my eyes.

"-I'm trying to remedy things between us, dammit -! " He frowned so deeply that even his brows knitted together with effort. "-You're a very _difficult_ woman, aren't you? I almost _prefer_ the silent treatment, if this is how you are." I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling swift and sudden hurt at such words.

"Do you?" I asked simply, standing from my space beside him. I clenched my fists with rage as I heard my voice crack slightly. He seemed to realize the profound, unspoken implication in his insult and tried to take it back. I held one tense hand up to stop the flood of words from his mouth. "We can go right back to not speaking, if that's what you want. I have no problem with that, mage."

I let him speak. "...No. No, of course not." My hand dropped to my side.

" _Of course not_...?" I assessed him, picking my chin up and letting my eyes sweep across his countenance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"..." He seemed to clam up entirely, shoulders hitching up like a fortress. "...I..." We were silent for a few long, agonizing beats. "...You know, I've never told anyone about what happened with my parents. And then, with you, it just comes spilling out so easily. And you - I mean, you weren't the best at comforting words, but you _listened_ and - " He scowls, then, and his eyes search some unseen thing in the distance. "I don't know why you act like I'm constantly trying to get a dig at you. The whole time we've communicated, and you've treated me like I'm your enemy."

I bristle at that accusation. "You haven't exactly shown me that you _aren't_. You've offhandedly insulted me, and - "

"I _tried_ to apologize, and you took it as if -"

"You _assume_ you know something about me, when in reality you know less than a fraction of what hardships I've suffered!" I exploded. "It was pretentious and condescending to even _think_ that you know anything about my life, or people like me." He stared at me in shock and stunned silence. Then he seemed resigned, slumping into his seat, lines of his body soft and pliable. If I wanted to push him off the log, he would have offered no resistance.

"...No, you're - you're absolutely right." He muttered.

"See, it's _that_ kind of thing that -! " I paused, my anger washing away. I pulled my chin toward my shoulder. _Had I heard him right_? "...What?"

"I said you're right." He spoke louder, for my benefit. He glanced up at me sheepishly, like a dog who had been caught doing something out of line. "I _don't_ know anything about a life of hardships. I know your life must have been difficult growing up, but I still know very little of you. I was just - I was trying to reach out to you. Maybe help. I suppose I can't until I know just _how_ terrible things were. I just hoped that - I was hoping that I could maybe...I don't know. I understand a little more, now, I guess." He paused, as if he were figuring out how to word his upcoming speech.

"...I guess - " He continued, "I guess that me trying to help at all without understanding is a little pretentious. yeah. In your eyes, it seems like... Like I think I somehow just _know_ what's best, but that was honestly not my intention. I suppose I've just made a mess of it, haven't I?"

I only feel a twinge of guilt. "...I...Know that you didn't mean it to be so offensive." I say, but my heart does not believe the words as my head does. "I accept your apology and seek to reward it with some disclosure. I suppose you _couldn't_ understand anything of me if we don't speak about it, right? ...So I will tell you a bit more."

"Oh?" He perks up considerably. I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

"...I was made to be alone after the age of eight. The Khajiit could no longer take care of me, as they were going back to Elsweyr. I could not go - as I had never been allowed to be _formally_ adopted by them, as their citizenship was tied to a work-permit and not a permanent location. I could not cross borders either, as I had no formal papers. I did not go to the orphanage as you might suspect, as I had no desire to have my fate laid before me in way of automatic enlistment into the army after my eighteenth birthday. I'm sure you are aware that the state does this with its wards, yes? I would have gotten my papers, but at what cost?"

"...You rejected education - a roof and a warm bed for - ?" He opened and closed his mouth, as if he knew instinctively what he wanted to say might be taken offensively. It probably was. His lips wanted to form the word _pride_ , but he must have known I would not have chosen my hardship had there been another, better alternative.

"You were privileged to have a choice."

"Yes. I...I see that now. I mean, I knew it, but I never... _Thought_ about it."

"You're a smart man. I'm sure you know that I would not have been afforded the same respect as you were. Grunts and couriers do not receive the same high-class training. We get basic weapons and combat training, sure, but then shortly after we're sent into the field. The Empire is smart not to pay the pawn-level soldiers much attention and cannot afford the time to train us better if the majority of us lead charges and will die anyways. We are cannon fodder, and easily replaced." I frowned a little, but not at him.

Was it possible to frown at a country?

"...I did not want to feel as though I was easily cast aside." I continued. "I did not want to be buried in a grave en mass, nameless as I was as a pickpocket. I told myself I would never be invisible again, unless I wanted to be so." I smiled ruefully. "I never imagined the Divines would get a laugh at my expense to grant my wish in such a...Flashy way as being named Dragonborn."

"Yes, I can imagine that is not what you expected." He spoke. I felt the tension between us dissipate.

"No, it wasn't."

"...Forgive me for asking, but do you ever wonder where your parents could be? If they live at all, of course."

"No. I don't think of it." I answered truthfully. "What use is there in that? They never did anything for me, and it's a waste of time."

"...Well, if it's any solace, my own parents watched me grow and care little for me. I suspect any day now I'll receive a letter from them, begging me to come home and marry some poor Count's daughter. I think I'd be very satisfied to send the answer to them. I'd scrawl big, bold letters - only two, mind. _N_ and _O._ "

"You don't think you'll ever make amends with your family?"

"Doubtful, but not impossible. I don't hope for it as much as expect it sometime in the far-off future. As I said, my parents are cautious but affable things - and surely, being the only heir to their dynasty give me some sort of value to them. As it is, it would be my father's doing. He's too proud to admit he's wrong, though - a trait I've tried to subdue in myself."

"...You do okay." I reassured him, a smirk playing at my lips. He seemed a bit delighted at that.

"I really _do_ try."


	16. Journal Entries 6

**[10th of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Whiterun**

Still on the fence about weather or not I can trust Marcurio. He already knows too much, but at this point it won't do much harm to indulge him a little more. If he wanted to tell someone, who would believe him? And more - _why_ would he tell anyone? I'm a good employer, I'm fair - he has no reason to out me to the common folk.

So I allowed him to stay in the home the jarl gave me for helping save Whiterun a while back, from when I was just a scared foreigner afraid to go to prison.

Slipped into Breezehome to drop off things I didn't want to sell - a few books, a couple trinkets. Dismissed Lydia back to Dragonsreach - the woman is far too eager and annoying for my taste, a bit too _pressing_ and prissy.

 _REMINDER:_ Got in rather late, as planned - but tomorrow I need to visit Adrienne's forge to hone my blades and make a bundle of new arrows.

Marcurio forever offended that the last time we were in Whiterun we had to stay at the inn because I didn't trust him enough. Don't have the heart to say I'm still not quite sure about him. I haven't really had anyone in my personal space in a very long time, and it's been increasingly difficult. Vulnerability is at a all time high. The last time I let someone in, they betrayed me. The time before that - when I felt safe, I ended up being left for dead in the middle of (figuratively) a decades-old conspiracy and (literally) an ancient ruin.

Thinking about it makes me nauseous.

Decided to make dinner in-house, much to the relief of my coin purse and to the extreme delight of Marcurio. Felt his eyes on me the whole time he wasn't nosing around my sparse personal affects.

* * *

 **[17th of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Morthal**

It is bitter cold in Northern(ish) Skyrim. Several Uneventful days have passed. I feel as though the mage is constantly watching me when I have my mask off in front of him. On one hand, it's actually a bit refreshing to have someone I don't have to wear the stifling thing in front of, but on the other - I feel a bit too exposed. I've been made relate-able, somehow; no longer an enigma or unreachable stranger. I'm not sure if I regret it or not quite yet.

It is neither hubris nor study that has led me to this conclusion of his watchful gaze, but rather - possibly - a paranoid delusion. I am not so vain to believe that he is somehow _captivated_ by my countenance, nor am I actually _convinced_ he is looking at me more than usual...

But the thought is still there.

Regardless - the situation remains a bit tense.

When walking around as The Dragonborn I had my entire face covered with a metal-made mask - complete with hooded robes to hide my gender and my hair. Of course, there was no hiding my voice - but I can only hope that the muffled quality somehow helped guard against being too specific.

Whiterun was a very strange place to be again, as a few key people know what I look like under the full mask AND know that I am the Dragonborn. They are bound by secrecy, however, either by oath or by favor. Still.

Jarl Balgruuf knows, of course, as he named me thane and was apart of the chain of events that lead me to the whole nonsense in the first place. By extension, His Housecarl knows, as well as the Court Mage - though this is also do to circumstance, and as I earned respect by becoming thane (by sheer luck, killing that dragon at the west watchtower) I asked that he, nor his court, let the populace at large know my true identity, should I be unmasked unless I have outed myself in public.

The Companions know, as well - Kodlack, after my asking politely - swore to me that his and himself will never tell my secret. I suppose I endeared myself to them during the time I stayed at Jorvaskrr by the jarl's decree. I had no money to my name after the events at Helgen, and needed a place to stay. In the few long weeks that Breezehome was barred from my ownership as it was being repaired and refurbished: The jarl asked The Companions to keep me as a charge and to put me to work for keep.

I, of course, was thankful just for the opportunity to sleep in a warm bed and have at least one meal a day and accepted whatever I could take. I was not a very good fit, being a 'lightfoot,' but they seemed to admire my work ethic.

It is the patriarch of Clan Greymane, a Companion not in oath or official title but merely by association, fashioned the mask for me. It was a simple thing, echoing the Dragon Priest masks I had seen along my journey (thankfully, not too many) and that was done with a purpose. He made it with the special Skyforge Steel so that it glinted like silver, but was dull enough in its polish so that it would not catch a glint in low light. It was a truly special, one -of-a-kind, beautiful mask. But I didn't put it away because of its looks.

When I left the Greybeards on their summit, I threw the thing into a chest in Breezehome, locked it, and haven't seen it since. I don't intend to put it on ever again. I am relieved that Marcurio did not ask to see it when we were there, as some sort of hard proof of my identity.

Thinking of all this, however, makes me...Hesitant, to say the least. The more who know, the higher the chance that someone will let my secret slip - and perhaps then I will be forced into the recent political turmoil. Already have I been made a puppet of the powers that be, and I do not intend to do that again in any capacity. But not only could a slip of the tongue undo me - give someone enough lashings or money, and they would reveal my identity just as easily. It worries me, makes me anxious in the dark of nights.

This, and more.

I do not wish to speak of it, of _him_ , but for weeks now have I been dreadfully nervous at the outcome of Cicero's corpse. I do not know what The Night Mother wants from me, or what she has planned - or what is meant by the lack of decay. I hoped, for a time, that it was simply a trick of the cold air in Dawnstar, or perhaps some other happenstance. But as time waned on, he remains. He haunts me, still, there in a coffin in the half-finished Sanctuary.

Mockingly, in a way.


	17. Journal Entries 7

**[28th of Second Seed 4E 203] - Riften Hold**

"What are we doing back here?" Marcurio asked, ever observant.

"In case you haven't noticed, I've been carrying a lot of baubles that need appraising. I have a contact here in the city proper who can tell me the value of some of these." He looked at me as if I were missing something horribly obvious.

"...What?...You're a thief, can't you do your own appraisal? Why don't you strong-arm the shop-keepers and just haggle the price up?"

"You know, for a merchant's son, you're a bit thick in the head." I sneered. "Jewelry pricing is based on season, even if base value is fixed. And some of these have enchantments of varying degrees, which I'm not confident in my abilities to properly appraise. Also - I did most of my work in Cyrod, so the pricing may be drastically different in this entirely separate country, and I haven't been here long enough to really understand the fluctuations in the market. And if I haggle too much, my reputation will be ruined in-house and no one will want to work with me. No fences means no sales. _Then_ I might as well retire."

"...So let me get this straight...You want a _fair_ price on your _stolen_ goods?" He scoffed. I whirled around to meet his gaze head on. Why was he trying to get under my skin today?

"Look: 90% of these are from dead enemies, not pockets and drawers. Are _you_ trying to lecture _me_ , mage? Don't pretend you didn't know what I was about before we even joined in our partnership. Second: The business of thievery is a lot more complicated than just hiding in dark alley ways and throwing the goods to the first person who will buy them. It has rules, and standards. A petty purse-snatcher I am not."

"That's true. So what's the plan?"

"We go to Riften, we talk to my contact - an Argonian named Madesi - then we take a trip to the Rat Way and sell to my fence. Oh and do me a favor - ?" I punctuated the importance of what I was about to say but stopping entirely.

"What is it?"

"Don't make eye contact with anyone. Don't talk to anyone. Try not to draw attention to yourself, and don't let people rope you into a conversation. If they try to talk to you, keep the responses short, to the point, and marginally diplomatic. The Ragged Flagon is a lot different than The Bee and Barb."

"I can handle myself, Ula. You don't need to baby sit me. I know there are lots of shady types in the Rat Way. I won't - "

" _Listen_ \- Don't try to act tough or high-and-mighty. You reek of septims and silk. Just stick by me and hopefully no one will mess with you. Also - be aware of your the contents of your pockets at all times. Don't let anyone touch you either. I don't want to break anyone's nose for stealing something of yours and breaking a cardinal rule. As an ally of mine, no one should be targeting you - but not everyone there is part of The Guild."

"...So...Do they not know?" He asked. I wasn't sure exactly what he was referring to at first, but then it clicked. "I mean, I imagine if anyone would still mess with you or me, they can't be afraid of you. They mustn't know that you're - "

"...That I'm the - ? ...No. No, they don't. And I'd like to keep it that way. Just - don't get into any trouble, alright? I don't want to have to clean up any messes. Stay quiet, keep your head down, and let me get my business done. It won't take me too long."

He put his hand on his heart. "I'll be good. Promise."

"Good. Or else I'm making you stay at The Bee and Barb instead. And I really don't - "

"What! You can't make me st-"

"-Want to hear you whine. See? This is why I _have_ to take you, you'll complain the whole time that I didn't trust you enough - "

"Yeah, that's absolutely right. I'm cool. _I can be mysterious!_ I won't cause problems."

"...See, that's exactly the sort of attitude that could get you in trouble. Don't be cocky. Be silent." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"...Fine."

* * *

 **[29th of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Riften**

I remember why I left in the first place.

These people are intolerable at their _worst,_ of course, but the problem is they tend to never be at their best. That is to say: I am glad I no longer have to see them constantly as I once did. While it was nice to catch up and see familiar faces, I felt strangely out of place. Like an alumni come back to school, only to see the place they once thought overwhelming as nothing more than a building full of ghosts and memories.

It had been too long, they said. Too long since they last saw me, and that they were happy to see me alive and well. I was surprised at the level of tangible relief in the room when I revealed myself to them. Many had thought me dead. Some thought me imprisoned. Others, a select few, the innermost circle, knew some of the truth of what had become of me. Delvin had kept quiet about my contact with him, said he wasn't sure if I wanted to lay low - and I thanked him for that; but had I known anyone was worried I would have requested he let it be known that I was alive and well.

I am unsure how to process this strange level of caring unseen before in my time spent at The Guild, but I will take it as it comes. I have made acquaintances here, not friends, but it still flatters me some that perhaps a few people would miss my presence should I die an untimely death.

Underneath the relief came the tension. A new recruit - a dunmer, he smells the blood money on me. Morag Tong. He gave me a terse nod of respect and solidarity, but we do not speak to each other; Nor of the unspoken rivalry or the lust for death we share. It has no place here, in The Ratway.

Delvin knows, of course, as an old friend of Astrid. Last we spoke he had not asked me what became of her, but I thought it prudent to tell him now that the smoke had cleared and I was more level-headed. He was saddened, yes, but we didn't speak much of it. He asked me what I thought of my companion while said mage was out of my line of sight. I told him it was a cruel joke he had played on me, but in the end Marcurio has proven useful.

Sold my jewelry to Tonilia, who was strictly-business as usual. It was refreshing to work with someone who was not spilling their emotions into my lap. I got a good sum at rather fair pricing because of Madesi. Some pieces were valued higher than I thought - mostly enchanted. They are a bit more rare here than in Cyrod due to the Nord's aversion to anything magical in nature, and I confess if it had not been for him Tonilia might have low-balled me on them to increase her own profit. She's a shrewd woman, but that's what I respect that about her.

Of course, the visit was not without some sort of annoyance.

Brynjolf.

It's not that I dislike the man - he, with his dulcet tones and strangely Breton accent (though he is Nord by blood) - It's that he is all together too charismatic and cocky for his own good. He is roguish in the way most men wish to be, and he is suited for his style of thievery, but there is something to be desired in the way he approaches problems.

There are two options for this man: Avoidance, or Compulsion. And of course, as is his personality, he tends to lean towards compulsion on any situation that is non-life-threatening.

Marcurio, being a man who absolutely stinks of nobility, was a rather easy target. Despite his desire to be charming and mysterious - a feat Brynjolf manages to give the illusion of - He falls just short of his goal. That is not to say the mage _isn't_ charming - he is, I confess - but that he simply could not hope to rise to the occasion against a man so practiced as Brynjolf on the same subject.

And of course, both men are naturally competitive.

To this day, as I write this, I still cannot say for certain if Brynjolf fancies me or if he just acts this way towards most women - excluding Vex, who would sooner dig his eyeballs out with a spoon before she allowed him to practice his guile on her. I confess that I do not care either way, and my neutrality on the subject only makes his jestful advances all the more amusing _and_ frustrating.

While Marc had surprised me by being relatively on his best behavior, it was the Nord who approached him first; sauntered right on over to the Imperial, who had been minding his own business sitting at the counter, drinking, while I attended mine.

"A fresh face! I hear you're a guest of Ula's. A friend of hers is a friend of ours here at The Ragged Flagon. So, tell me, friend, what is your name?" Brynjolf reached his hand out to shake the Imperial's, but the mage did not take it. It fell to his side unceremoniously.

"I'm called Marcurio." To be more dramatic, he paused here - nursing his tankard but keeping his eyes on the blonde. "...I've seen you topside, selling your wares in the plaza. You're... _Brynjolf_ , right?"

"Aye, that's right." The Nord brightened considerably at the other's recognition. "So! Marcurio, was it? How on earth did you end up traveling with Ula, of all people? She's certainly an enigma."

"I'm a mercenary." He answered boredly, almost dismissive. This made Brynjolf obviously a bit agitated, as he then decided to press the subject.

"I didn't know Ula needed a body guard. Oi, Lass - " He directed this part at me, "Why didn't you tell me? If you wanted someone to protect you, you could've just asked!" Vex, hearing this, scoffed loudly.

"Brynjolf, you're a man who shies away from a knife-fight in fear of ripping your _shirt_. I highly doubt you'd make a good body guard - as if Ulalume even needs one." Marcurio's brow furrowed - and for a moment I could see something shift behind his eyes. There was blood in the water now, and I had a feeling the noble was like a slaughterfish.

Jabbing at the sudden weakness with a precision I had rarely seen before, the Nibenesian said: "I'm not a body guard, I'm a mercenary. You'd know the difference if you had as much intelligence as you like to pretend to have up on the surface at your little snake-oil booth."

He said it in a tone that was a special sort of condescension bred thoroughly from nobility, like some sort of genetic trait - a heavy mix of 'talking-down' and disgust; flavored with just enough of a sarcastic bite that leveled out the insult into a mellow, seemingly effortless stab.

A mix of delighted and surprised 'Oooh's!' came from the crowd, all attention drawn to the two men at the counter.

Brynjolf shifted his weight, obviously taking in the effect of the sudden audience, and then smiled in response. It was just as straight-toothed and pearly as Marc's usual fare; But he couldn't fool me - his eyes betrayed him, hard with irritation."Ah. Yes - Says the man who owed gambling debts in the past and has been the subject of _multiple_ shake-downs done by The Guild. I'm sure you're the very picture of genius, then. But - wait a moment - Aren't smart men like you supposed to be _good_ at cards?"

More gasps from the crowd. Marc's face betrayed no effect, and I found myself respecting him for that. It was clear bait, bright as the sun - but he was far past taking it and instead went directly into a quiet sort of rage.

The two men were clearly at odds, the passive-aggressive nature of their little spat suddenly very real and very hostile. The mage drew his right hand into a half-open palm facing up -a tell-tale sign that he was ready to cast, and Brynjolf had his hands at his hip, ready to reach for his dagger.

I thought it prudent to step in, here.

I did, literally, pushing myself between them.

"-Knock it off. I'm just trying to do my business, here." I glared at the Nord, who was at least two heads taller than me. "Do we have a problem, Brynjolf?" I _should_ have said - _'Do you have a problem with Marcurio,'_ but somehow my mind automatically filled our partnership into a 'we.' It was probably not for the best, as it could be seen as _romantic_ \- especially to the ever flirtatious, Nord standing in front of me, but for some reason it gave me a great deal of satisfaction to know that _if_ he did really fancy me, and it was not simply a quirk of his personality, it had probably bit into that massive ego of his.

Brynjolf blinked, as if he had forgotten where he was, then cast me a sheepish look. "No, lass. Of course not." His posture relaxed, but I could feel the tension still sharp in the mage behind me.

" I thought so." I responded. "You're needed here, Brynjolf - I don't think you want to jeopardize the good thing you have. Vekel might take offense at you starting something in his pub. And as for my business of having a mercenary to watch my back - Vex said said it best: I have my doubts _you'd_ be suited for the sorts of jobs I have in mind. _You_ have no room to question _me_." I could tell _this_ stung his ego a bit, because something in his cocky expression softened a bit. A vague jab at anyone's skill was bound to upset them.

Marc cast him a smug look, catching his obvious disappointment, but I continued before he could make the problem worse by spitting out a crass comment. "-Besides, what are you doing, messing with him? Marc's a layman, and a guest of mine. Don't get him involved in affairs of The Guild, though he may have owed it debts in the past. He payed his dues, has he not? And I thought The Ragged Flagon was an approved middle ground - or has that changed since I _turned down my promotion_?" For extra emphasis I looked at Vekel the Man, who ducked behind his counter and avoided eye-contact with me.

"It _is_ a safe-space, lass." Brynjolf answered, the fire gone from his voice. "Just havin' a bit of a piss-take, s'all. Not to worry! Boys will be boys." Brynjolf threw his hands up in mock surrender, the grin making a return, but with less enthusiasm behind it. "I had to test your new friend, here. Territory and all. You know me. He's got quite the cutting tongue, however. I can respect that." The Nord cast the mentioned Imperial a look that meant to end the argument on a truce. Marc simply rolled his eyes and looked away, scoffing.

"That was almost convincing, Bryn." Vex called out, her voice barely muffled by her tankard. I could tell by her voice that she was smirking. Brynjolf grimaced but did not dare show turn around so that she could actually see his sour expression.

"...Yes, well, at that - I should leave you to it, then." He muttered, clearly feeling ganged-up on.

"You should." I responded, giving him a terse nod. "Glad the air has been cleared. It was good seeing you, Brynjolf." I gave him a sweet smile to show that there were no hard feelings. There were, but it wasn't worth the argument or awkwardness.

"Aye. Same to you."

When I was finished with business, we left quickly and with as little fanfare as I could avoid. When we were back outside in the semi-fresh air, I turned to Marcurio.

"You didn't follow my directions!" I pressed a finger into his collarbone, then retreated. "That could have ended violently."

The wizard scoffed, un-phased by our physical contact. "Yeah? Well - He was trying to insult me, mark his 'territory.' I couldn't just let him get away with that. And I _was_ relatively polite - operative word here being: _relative_."

"That was you being _polite_?"

"Yes. Believe me, I've dealt with far worse passively aggressive people. My family is full of them - it's almost like, the more money you have, the more awful you become. I didn't start anything, I kept my head down - but you couldn't have expected me to just sit and feign ignorance to what he was trying to do. I just had to make the first strike to prove I wasn't just a nobody."

I looked at him carefully. "...I suppose that's true. You make a fair case, anyhow."

"What, you aren't going to yell at me some more?" He grinned, almost challengingly. I put on a passively annoyed face, angry that he would call me out like that.

"...Did you want me to? What am I, your mother? I don't have to scold you for your behavior. Do you feel guilty of something that I should be mad at you about?"

"No." He crossed his arms, his expression turning a tad more smug. "- I just didn't think you'd give up so easily."

I turn away from him, more flustered and annoyed than outright _frustrated_ anymore, and I say nothing.

...I'm surprised at myself, too.


	18. Journal Entries 8

**[30th of Second Seed - 4E 203] - Riften**

"So. The Ratway smells...Interesting. How do you do business like that?"

I shrugged. "It's the sewer system of Riften - did you expect it to smell like flowers? Anyway, it deters the more curious commonfolk at the very least. I've stopped noticing, at this point. Riften itself hardly smells much better - what with the near stagnant river-water in the canals." He nodded sagely, agreeing with me.

We lapsed into silence for all of five or ten beats when he suddenly blurted out -

"...So. Brynjolf. You two know each other well?" I glanced at him, casting him an annoyed look.

"You know, you aren't very smooth with the transitions." He paled slightly, amber eyes averting.

"-I'm just curious as to how you two know each other, that's all. He seemed rather _territorial_." I let out a sigh, batting a stray curl away from my eyes.

"Does it matter?" I evaded the question, suddenly feeling anxious and uncomfortable. "Why do you want to know?" He avoids eye contact.

"I'm just trying to figure out more about you, that's all. What your life was like before you started doing this...Thing. Whatever we're doing. Dungeon diving? Yeah."

"Ah, I see." I looked at him for a long moment before answering. "...Well - Brynjolf was the guy who sort of inducted me into The Guild. More ceremony than anything - like a proving, or initiation? But that's as far as our personal relationship goes. Other than that, the man was second to the previous Guild Master and is sort of acting as leader alongside Delvin and Vex for the time being - until they find a suitable replacement."

"...So...Why don't _you_ become Guild Master? You don't want that 'prestige?' Are you scared of commitment, or something?" He grinned, obviously meaning it as a joke. I clammed up a little, admittedly, drawing farther from him in our walking distance.

"...Well, I'm not really cut out for the whole...Leadership thing. Or being tied down to that sort of responsibility. So in a way, I guess...You could say that I am."

"Mmm." He hummed, a thoughtful expression on his face. "..So, back to Brynjolf - are you sure there's...Nothing between you guys?"

"You seem very interested in him. Were you charmed by his accent or something?" I teased, trying to deflect - though I wasn't really sure why. There was nothing between Brynjolf and I, nor would there ever be. I was not attracted to the man, though I was not blind to his handsomeness. "I think he's a free man - no lover. If you want to ask him out, perhaps the next time we're in Riften - ?"

This made Marcurio laugh. "No, no - I was just curious. He seems to be quite taken with you." I scoffed at that.

"He acts like that with all women. I wouldn't say he fancies me over any other, if he likes me at all." The mage shrugged, then, letting one shoulder rise and fall lazily. It made the orange silk gleam of his robes in the afternoon sun.

"I know that look in a man's eyes - but if you say there's nothing there, then I believe that _you_ think that. It's almost delightful, then, to imagine his heartbreak. Thank you for that - it cheers me considerably."

"What do you mean - _'that look in a man's eyes?'_ " I frowned. "Do you _really_ think Brynjolf is interested in me? That's ridiculous. The man loves money and easy women-"

"- _Mmmaybe_ that's why he likes you - because you're a challenge." The mage cast me a strange sort of look that made me feel like my intestines were slithering in my body cavity - like, in an anxious way. "In any case - I'm not sure why you think it's such a stretch of the imagination. The man obviously puts you above all others, and even made a fool of himself in front of people who obviously need to respect him. I'd say that's _something_."

"If I didn't know you any better, Marcurio, I'd say you were trying to compliment me. You really believe that a man like Brynjolf would 'settle-down' for a woman such as myself?" He rolled his eyes at at that.

"Far be it from me to sing your praises, Ulalume. You've made it abundantly clear how you feel about compliments. I've never met a person so against them in all my life - and I've been to parties full of _nobles_ and other assorted overly-entitled fops."

"Ah, yes, but those sorts of people _love_ hearing how great they are. Not me. I often find 'compliments' hollow and baseless; A tool used to worm one's way into a false - " I caught myself, a jolt of nausea and grief stopping the words mid-sentence. Marc noticed immediately, eyes catching mine. I looked away from him, finding the tree-line far more interesting. "...A false sense of comradery." I finished, voice flat. I could still feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to turn again. I did not.

"Oh?" There was another question hidden there, but I did not rise to answer it.

"...I enjoy people judging me by my actions, so as not to get caught up in some false sense of morality through vanity."

"...Pretty people can be the most evil, because others are willing to forgive them more easily. I understand. You want to be seen for what you _do_ , not what you look like."

"I just rather people hate me for who I am rather than love me for something I am not." I confess. He makes a noise of agreement and I find it within myself to glance at him again. He is pondering something, gaze faraway. I wonder what he's remembering.

The thoughtful expression is gone quickly, however, replaced with curiosity as our eyes meet again."In your line of work, that must come quite handy. No wonder you're so adamant that the people closest to you make more effort to understand your motives rather than simply focus on your appearance."

"You act as if I have many close friends." I laugh, but it sounds almost pained. I look away from him and berate myself for even bringing it up in the first place. Am I that desperate for validation? For a bit of soothing words? Pathetic. It sounds like I'm fishing for a compliment or a few kind phrases to stroke my ego.

"A thief must have connections, at least?" He backpedals slightly, clearly a bit embarrassed by my admission. I do not answer right away, and I can tell it immediately makes him regret saying anything. He gets this look on his face that his best described as 'passively pained.'

"...Well...My 'friends' tend to die or leave me, actually." I sucked in a breath and hoped my voice would not crack. "...Or worse: betray me." The heaviness of such a blatant statement is not lost to him, but he does not take the time to let the silence settle for too long between us.

"...Those that betrayed you were never friends, I'd argue." He replied, quickly, almost as if he didn't even have to think of this answer. "...But that certainty explains a lot."

"Oh? Have you gained some unfortunate insight on the inner workings of my psyche?" I try to pass it off as teasing, but now I feel a strange mixture of vulnerable and annoyed.

"I'm not sure yet." He cups his chin in hand and casts me a strange sort of smirk. "I suppose I'll have to refine my hypothesis with more research. In the meantime, perhaps we can talk about the future rather than the past? What - pray tell - _boss_ \- is our next goal?"

"That was a much smoother transition. I feel almost proud."

"I like to think I'm at least _adept_ at social skills." He shoots back. I can't help but smirk - I pull the hem of my hood to cover my face so he doesn't see. Wouldn't want him to think he's somehow broken the iron-clad wall I've kept between us. At this point, it's more for him than me - or I like to tell myself that, at least. The poor man wore his heart on his sleeve - and I was greedy, and ruthless. I saw a weakness in him in his beginning stages of legitimately caring for me, and despite all his pomp and annoyances - I did not want to hurt him.

The past had damaged me to the point where it was sometimes a favorite pastime for me to consider what my life would be like had I not gone through such hardship. A sort of review, and a mourning for a life that was killed before it could ever take to seed. Perhaps, at this age, I would have been married by now. Maybe I would have a child -

Perhaps I would have just been another boring housewife to a foolish nobleman who visited the Temple of Dibella every weekend when he _said_ he was going to be doing something productive. I'd seen enough of that to recognize that 'normal' living was not always what it was cracked up to be. When my mind started pushing that narrative, I began to feel thankful that I did not live such a horrible existence. As it were, the person I am now could not tolerate staying in one place for too long. That is not to say that I don't _want_ a lovely villa or manor to call my own to return to - just that, perhaps, I would not be in it all the time.

"I'm not sure yet. I suppose that's half the fun. I'd like to go to Haarfingar, I think. I hear there are many caves around there - mostly bandits, especially along the coast. They're sure to have lots of loot stolen from cargo and the like. I have a fence there who can give me good prices and make it look like a legal transaction to boot. What do you say?"

"Sounds like a good plan. Lead the way."

* * *

 **[3rd of MidYear -4E 203] - Morthal**

I woke up this morning in a strange fashion. The world was still dark, flailing in my bedroll and a cold sweat upon my brow. There had been strange images in my head while I had been dreaming that I simply had to write down. I wrote it upon a scrap paper I had in my pack, scribbled messily with horrid charcoal that temporarily stained my fingers black. When I woke this morning, I decided to re-read what it was I had written.

Code names. Faces. Places to meet them.

 _Mother was sending me contracts in my dreams._

This was not entirely a new development, of course, but one that made me cautious. It had been a while since I had recieved anything like this. Was this a message? I mean, in practice, it _was_ \- but I mean, of a different sort? Other than its utility purpose. Was The Night Mother disappointed in me?

Probably.

I wasn't at the Sanctuary, I wasn't fulfilling my purpose. I wasn't doing my job. I had thought the short letters to Nazir were sufficient enough - but I had avoided going back to that place for a few weeks - months, now I realize - and the contracts must be piling up.

I did not sense _displeasure_ , however. And for some reason, receiving the contracts in this way made me feel closer to The Night Mother than I ever had before. It was almost...A blessing, I suppose. But there was still clear annoyance in the feel of the dreams, as if what I was doing was making her go out of her way - which, I suppose is _true_ , though I considered it lucky that I was merely getting information and not dealing with The Wrath of Sithis for my irresponsibility.

Needless to say, I did not get a restful night's sleep. Marcurio's voice seemed too loud and intrusive, and I confess I may have been a bit harsh to him in the morning - however, he did not seem to hold this against me. Perhaps I simply _look_ tired, as unflattering as that may be; but at least he did not fight me on my request to have a bit of quiet on the road.

I do not wish to dwell on this thing that has happened, however, unless it further develops.

As I write this, I am sitting upon a log sitting around a campfire with three hunters and the mage. We encountered them close to sunset, off a trail on the main road as they were heading back to Morthal proper to sell pelts, and Marcurio - the ever affable socialite, decided to invite them to camp with us. I was a bit disturbed that he made this decision without my consent, but quickly bit back any displeasure. After all, there was no harm in company so as long as I kept my identity hidden.

The raucous laughter and story-telling lifted my spirits some, though the ghosts of long dead friends and missed comrades makes my heart ache. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to just _be_ , to sit and indulge in such social activities. Marc seems to welcome the company with glee, though I admit I worry its because I am not so choice of company myself. I was never a talkative person, and as of late I have not been feeling up to the task to even pretend.

In truth, grief threatens to choke me if I dwell, or am left to my thoughts, so I've tried to keep busy with work and such, and there has been no room for dalliances.

I'm often stuck to the distractions, clinging desperately to any random thing that pops in my head. Before long, I realize I've been silent for far too long and feel like I must extend myself before I've made myself ready to converse. And then it spirals down from there. I must be awful to socialize with.

Regardless, the mage seems happy to share a drink or two and stories with the hunters, and it makes me glad to see him entertained. I like to observe rather than engage, and this feels nice. The Hunters say they heard there is to be an execution is Solitude in a weeks' time - if we hurry we can probably witness it.

I admit to being a bit curious. I am no stranger to death or public executions; but it is something so visceral and interesting to watch, standing among 'proper' citizens who feign horror with giddy hearts and delighted smiles.

Marcurio and I have decided to try and make it to Solitude, as we are not far from the border of Haafingar. If we can stick to the outskirts of the city proper, perhaps we can bring things in to sell to the multitude of shops there.

Solitude is a funny place. It is farthest city in Skyrim from Cyrodil to the north except Winterhold, and yet it feels like the most home. It reminds me of a smaller version of The Imperial City, with the market place and the cobbled streets and neatly built stone walls. The sea air is a good measure colder, here in Skyrim - but the beaches make me homesick and the East Empire Co. logos adorning boxes piled up along the docks makes my fingers itch with anticipation of the treasures hidden inside.

This new distraction will prove to be good, I'm sure of it.

* * *

 **[10th of MidYear - 4E 203] - Solitude**

Politics never cease to bore me, though a good beheading is never a waste of time.

Turns out the man was a guard during what has been since dubbed either _'The Incident'_ or _'The High King's Murder,'_ or to Stormcloak Loyalists: _'The Totally Fair and Unbiased Battle For The High King's Crown in Which Only One Combatant Had a Strong Sword Arm and The Power of The Thu'um Whilst The Other Did Not.'_

The man was guilty of a simple but meaningful crime: Opening the gate so that the Jarl of Windhelm could escape.

This was, of course, akin to _treason_ to any Imperial Nationalist/Loyalist, regardless of race of origin or homeland. Allowing Ulfric Stormcloak safe passage after the murder of The High King was nothing short of taking a side in a political war, and so he had to be made an example of.

Weather or not this is an appropriate decision is not within my knowledge. On one hand - the common people who believe him to be a criminal are assuaged; the Empire's authority will remain unquestioned. On the other, those who sympathize with the Stormcloak regime will no doubt be incited, claiming this guard as a martyr for their cause and using this as an example of the Empire's control being stressed for the sake of flexing tyrannical oppression to lash back against any perceived budding revolution.

In my opinion, neither is entirely wrong or right.

At the end of the day, the true dichotomy lies against those who believe in religious freedom and those who favor Nord-Centered Nationalistic Extremism - and there are plenty of either on each side.

As an Imperial who respects but does not worship the Nine/Eight Divines, I can't help but feel as though this is not my fight - though I will say that complacency and refusal to act does not help. Furthermore, I feel as though my direct hand in The Emperor's death has not smoothed matters over in any stretch of the imagination.

My only confusion lies within the fact that neither side of this political and ideological war seems to understand is that they share a common enemy within The Thalmor - the governmental entity I had first suspected wanted the assassination of Titus Mede II; though his own council seemed to be the most obvious (and frankly, least dramatic and most disappointing) faction who _actually_ ordered his execution.

I will say that I have the definite privilege of not having a stake in the turmoil at hand. I was never legally a citizen of Cyrodil, I am certainly not one of Skyrim, and I do not care about Talos. It is nothing more than an intellectual exercise when I _do_ speak of it, and as such I am fortunate that Marcurio feels largely the same. We have had one or two delightful conversations about it since first hearing of the news that the execution would take place - though I get the feeling (and it gives me smug satisfaction as much as it irritates me) that he had not assumed I would be so intelligent.

Of course, I pity devout worshipers of Talos and even sympathize and support ideological/religious freedom (even though these same people would condemn me for the entity I chose to worship) as a basic right and principle of all free peoples under any banner or flag - and as such it makes it hard to vilify either side completely. As an Imperial in blood and one who has been effectively harmed by the system within The Empire, I understand the argument that the 'Powers That Be' within the now practically defunct White-Gold Tower are illegitimate and disconnected from the common people, I also understand the necessity of a single unifying power against another faction that has proved extremely lethal and calculated. (The Thalmor, of course.)

In any case, the beheading left me with a fluttering heart and sour taste in my mouth for reasons I attribute to being a bit torn on where exactly I sit at root of the problem. It was well worth the trip, however, as it is a rare treat to be rewarded with public execution.

I have little else to say tonight. Lately, I've been feeling a bit more exhausted in the daylight than usual. I think perhaps the restless sleep is to blame.

Maybe...I should take a little trip to Dawnstar, slip out of the inn at night while Marcurio sleeps. Talk to Nazir, see The Night Mother in person again.

Yes. I think that's the next move.

But first: Looting around the shores of Haafingar at all the little pirate's coves.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the late update. Life got very busy suddenly, but hopefully regularly scheduled updates will happen again. Stay tuned!**

 **And thank you for sticking around. I promise 'The Jester, The Mage, And The Thief' will be a trio very soon; And then the REAL story shenanigans can begin. ;)**


	19. Journal Entries 9

**[13th of MidYear - 4E 203] - Haafingar**

"Wandering the forested paths in this hold reminds me a bit of Cyrodil, sometimes." I spoke quietly, so as to not break the peaceful sound-mix of wind-tousled leaves, waves of dense grass, and songbirds hidden in the trees branches.

"Does it make you homesick?"

"No." I answer.

"Me either. Sometimes I miss Cyrod - but then I remember what it was like in reality, and it makes me remember why I left in the first place. Although - hm. You never struck me as a forest-wandering type." Marcurio muttered back.

"I never was fond of the wilderness, no - but it became necessary. Now I'm not sure which I prefer - the quiet of nature, or the bustling hubs of settlements and cities. One makes me anxious and vulnerable feeling, the other makes my hands itch and my heart ache with feeling so small and individual."

"I assume it's the wilderness that makes you anxious."

"Yes."

"... _'Wandering the wilderness became necessary,'_ you said? Why's that?" I shifted uncomfortably at this sudden line of questioning and berated myself for practically inviting him to it.

"...Uh, well. I had a...Friend a long time ago, who...Sort of -" I felt myself blush a bit at the thought of how foolish I had been as a young girl, and how smitten I had been with him. I pushed the thought from my mind as I formed a coherent sentence to sum our relationship up to the mage. "-Well, we traveled together for a while, and he favored _camping_ to dirty alleyways - can't say I blame him, though it was a bit of an adjustment on my part back then."

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows in that way that made me instantly regret saying anything at all. His mouth pulled up into a smirk, too, and I had to avert my gaze for fear of acting on my sudden desire to strike him in annoyance. He could read my face. I made a mental note to fix that. "...So, tell me about this... _Friend_ of yours?"

"He was a half-elf - Bosmer, specifically." I said, voice monotone so as not to betray any more emotion.

" _Forest_. Makes sense." I felt my mouth twitch down into a frown, contrasted by the mage's amused expression. "...Go on?"

"There's not much else to say. We were friends, he was a few years older than me, we parted ways when he decided to move to Valenwood."

"You didn't want to go with him?" I felt myself clam up a little bit.

"...I couldn't go."

"Why not?"

"I am no citizen of Cyrodil, nor one of anywhere else in the world. Remember? I have no documentation, never have. I am landless - a ghost, a thing that slipped through the cracks. I don't exist. And - Well...That's not something that has _always_ worked in my favor. Can't cross borders without papers, and the Empire has made well sure that forgeries are nigh impossible to skirt by on during these trying times. I haven't heard of many success stories even now - and then, being young and not as successful in my chosen path as I am now - I didn't have the means to pay for a good set."

"Ah." He furrowed his brow as if he were making a difficult observation. "...But you _wanted_ to go with him?"

"I'm not sure." He seemed to suddenly see my discomfort all at once and decided to end this particular line of questioning - though I could tell he was not finished altogether.

"...It's probably best not to think too much on it, now. Doesn't change the fact that you couldn't go."

"Right," I answered automatically. "No papers. No citizenship." But I felt a pang of regret in my chest that made me breathless.

He seems to accept what I said without much difficulty, but then he makes an expression of confusion.

"..Wait, how did you get into Skyrim, then?" I feel myself start to break out in a cold sweat but push on anyways. He probably can't see how uncomfortable I am, as I'm trying my hardest not to seem affected. I almost curse my nature, but think better of it. It's better that he not know how much this bothers me. I don't need to be weak.

 _Don't be weak_.

"...You heard the stories about Helgen, right?"

"Some. Ulfric Stormcloak and a group of his men where set for execution, right? Then the dragon interfered and burned the whole settlement down. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Right, so -" In my minds eye I see flashes of obsidian scales against a bright afternoon sky and it makes me shiver. "-As I'm sure you know, I was there...Obviously. But do you know _why_ I was there?" The mage was quiet for once, just shook his head in the negative. "I got caught on the border, trying to sneak in. They thought I was an informant or something, a rogue soldier perhaps - not sure, exactly - but I happened to make my unfortunate crossing right near a stormcloak camp right as the Imperial army raided it. I didn't have any identifying papers on me, but if it hadn't been for that military operation, I would have most likely been successful in my border-crossing. But I wasn't - and I didn't have a way to prove I wasn't a spy, and - and that's why I was in Helgen that day - that's why I was taken into custody. "

"Oh." He purses his lips in thought for a moment, then seems to calculate something in his head before speaking words aloud: "...Uh, well...Since we're talking about your past and all - I've been meaning to ask you something for quite some time, yet I haven't found the opportunity to."

I feel my weight shift away from him. "...What is it?" He seems almost embarrassed all of a sudden.

"...Your name. It's very unique - something that slides off the tongue so easily that I daresay it sounds nothing like anything I've ever heard before - not from the human races, anyhow. How did you come by it? You said you were found outside of Bravil by the Khajiiti caravans, no recollection of you parents. Did the Khajiit name you?" I furrowed my brow.

"What an odd question." I was passively amused. "...Yes, it was the Khajiit who named me. Ulalume apparently means something in Ta'agra, sort of."

"Oh?"

"Well, it's a bit changed so tongues that do not speak Ta'agra can form my name, mixed with the sounds of Cyrodilic/Tamrielic common, and therefore Old Nibenian rooted - like _ab antiquo_ \- but its a mash up of words meaning 'to howl' or 'to shriek', and 'light,' - but less like actual light and more like glory, enlightenment, splendor...That - and there's also...Like...The moons?"

"Huh?"

I shook my head. I wasn't explaining it right. "Something in my name is likened to the moons, too, I mean. The Khajiit who raised me said my face was round and pretty and pale like the moons, and I was crying when I was found - so...Y'know. Ulalume."

"That's very interesting, actually. I've always been fascinated by the Khajiiti mother tongue."

"...Thanks. Is that a compliment?"

"It is."

I hummed an answer, though not really giving him affirmation or a denial.

"...So, do you speak any of their tongue?" He asked, clearly a bit excited at the prospect. I was a little anxious from his bold-faced glee. He was an academic who no doubt found such things interesting to a fault, and I certainly would never meet expectations.

"...A bit." I confessed, "Though, mostly slang and things that slipped through a mix of Cyrodilic and Ta'agra - things the Khajiiti would say, or phrases and idioms brought from their homeland." He brightened considerably and I couldn't help but feel a bit happy that we had moved on from the previous topic. I didn't much like talking about my origins, but I never minded speaking about my happy first years on Nirn.

"-That's really unique, you know. Most humans don't know _anything_ about their culture at all. You have some pretty unprecedented perspective."

"-Most humans think they are shifty creatures with no culture outside of criminal thoughts, however." I shot back with a hint of distaste clear in my voice. "It doesn't surprise me that the Khajiiti people feel unwelcomed wherever they go. Even so, I doubt they would share everything even if they were trusted more by other races - however: they _are_ good story-tellers. Oral history is the rule rather than the exception - though, I _can_ say for sure they find us Tailless-Ones to be very odd in our customs and sense of self - it begets importance on individuality rather than the clan or family. They also seem to wonder if we are cold without fur on our bodies, as well as find us a bit ugly - but that's a story for another time." Marc sped up so that he could walk in front of me, turning to face me to look directly into my face.

"...You know, I've been wondering about that, too."

"About what?" I didn't like where this was going all of a sudden and made the displeasure very evident in my voice and expression.

"-Do you know how pretty you are?" He practically blurted, "-I mean, growing up with the Khajiit in your formidable years has got to change your perception of yourself somehow, right? Is that why you don't - ?" I stopped him right there.

"-What?" I feel my face darken a shade or two in complete embarrassment. How could he just say something so nonchalant? I was supposed to be unapproachable, intimidating. When did he start talking to me like this? I didn't like it one bit. "-I _know_ I'm attractive-" I choked out, "I wonder: Why is this subject so important to you? You've brought it up _multiple_ times."

"No - no. That's just it; You, Ulalume, are not just _attractive_ , you're - " He paused to gather his thoughts and we nearly slowed our pace to a snail's crawl. His face struck me as so serious and contemplative that I couldn't really find it within me to stop his train of thought. "You are very beautiful by any human standard - especially so by Imperial." I scoffed internally, rolling my eyes - ah, yes, how _romantic_ -

"Is that so?" I challenged him, crossing my arms over my chest. He seemed to sense my annoyance but barreled right on through anyways.

"Why, yes, actually." He suddenly put on a performative voice, outstretching a hand like one of the great spoken-word poets of The Bard's College. "Your void-dark curls are glossy and voluminous, and your sea-glass blue eyes are so rare in their coloring - and set in a beautifully round, alabaster face; like some great artist's sculpture or painting _._ " He finished with a flourish and a cheeky grin that made me roll my eyes again. If he kept going on this way, I was sure to have them roll right on out of my head.

"Why Marcurio, I didn't know you were a _bad poet_ on top of being a scholar." I snorted, teasing him mostly to cover up my embarrassment at such a blatant confession.

Did he really think such things about me? It was obvious the mage enjoyed my appearance and company, but that was so obnoxiously contrived that it was abundantly clear in that moment that he could possess _actual feelings_ for me - however small, unfounded, or ill-focused.

\- What had he said to me before?

Ah. Yes.

 ** _No proud man made a fool of himself for just any woman's attentions._**

"..No, but really - " He sobered a bit, and the way he spoke to me was affectionate and soft. "Fair skin, dark curly hair, big eyes, pretty mouth, button nose - your features are so aligned in such a way that you are an embodiment of an ideal that is rare to be met either by Colovian or Nibenesian women alike."

I blinked, stone-facing against such poorly hidden emotion. It made me uncomfortable. "...And?...So?"

"So? _So_?" He gaped at me, mouth opening and closing unattractively like a fish. "-The _point_ is, you seem to be unaffected entirely. Beauty is power, Beauty is false virtue. True beauty is rare on Nirn, and I daresay _you_ are one of the few beautiful things that exist on this plane." I nearly choked on my own breath.

"I am unaffected." I answer, ignoring the rest of his words. "But am I not the _sum_ of my parts? Am I to be judged on aesthetic alone?" Before he has time to reply, I continue: "-And what shall I do with my looks? This _power_ , as you say? And you are right at that. _Further exploit others?_ I already do! I look sweet, innocent. A maiden, a pretty lover - and should I become a Dibellian priestess because of that? No - I use it to my own advantage. _I own it_ , it is not for others, though they may see it and appreciate it. And what do I do? A bat of the eyelashes, a brief touch with lingering fingers, a cute laugh, the right quirk of my lips - and what happens? Knees buckle, prices fall, crimes are pardoned, - And _I_ am overlooked. Beauty is a creature my features tamed, but I am not Beauty. I am something else entirely."

A look of understanding dawns on his face and I squirm beneath his gaze. "So _that's_ your problem with it. You feel you are defined by it."

"Hm?" I glance away. "...No - on the contrary, I reap benefits of it: Beauty often works in my advantage, it is just very tiring to be reminded of it constantly."

"It's unimportant to you." He observed, though he needn't have said it aloud.

"Should it have importance?" He turned from me briefly, considering his position on the matter. He seemed a bit sobered when he answered, as if this was a revelation of some sort.

"...I'm not sure. I think that is a matter of opinion."

"Then why stress such a point?" I asked, reaching - metaphorically -with both hands to find his train of thought. I thought to wrestle it to the ground once and for all.

"I'm trying to understand you." He answered simply, as if we were discussing the weather. I almost felt offended at his bare-faced admission, rearing back and pulling him by the shoulder so that he would look me in the eye.

"...You're always trying to do that. I'm not sure of it's purpose, still; I don't like it. Can't you be satisfied with what I say and do alone?" He shrugs at this, casts me a straight-toothed smile that makes his cheeks dimple and his eyes glow honey-colored in the sunlight.

"...Well, I'd like to think its because I'm a scholar, first and foremost, and things of great mystery interest me. And you: Ulalume - You certainly are a mystery." I let him go quickly, as if my hand on his shoulder burns my skin. His eyes follow my movement, and I remove myself from his personal space. I don't really have anything smart to say to that blatant honesty, and it makes my stomach sour considerably.

He was catching feelings for me, and it made my head spin.

I glare at the road ahead and try not to think too hard about it for the rest of the day.

* * *

 **[20th of MidYear - 4E 203] - Dawnstar**

Nazir was admittedly happy to see me in person after months of only written correspondence, and he wasn't too proud to tell me to my face. Babette knew I was fine but also seemed a bit relieved that I seemed sane and whole, and even remarked that I seemed to be doing quite a bit better. Their concern about my mental health made me happier than I had been in a few weeks, and it made my heart ache to realize how depressed I had become.

I spoke quickly of my time alone, and subsequently the new traveling partner I had acquired, then met with the few initiates that Nazir had brought into The Family. It did my heart well to see The Brotherhood slowly strengthen to something resembling a group once more, though we did still have a lot of work to do.

Reconstruction of the Sanctuary was nearly finished when I arrived - the living quarters had been completed for a few weeks by then; All that was left was a few bits and bobs like the alchemy garden, The Night Mother's shrine and various other utility rooms.

Being near The Family lifted my spirits some, though The Sanctuary itself made me feel like I was about to break into a cold sweat at any moment. I was anxious to leave, though I wanted to stay and visit, too - But in the end it was Babette who convinced me that it was okay to feel the way I did. She told me it was good that I came in and stayed for a while, but perhaps pushing it any further would be too much.

I left as she suggested and managed to steal away into the Windpeak Inn without arousing suspicion. It was good fortune that Marcurio and I often booked separate rooms whenever possible. In the morning, he did not so much as hint at knowing I had left at all.

I'm a bit angry at my physical revulsion to The Sanctuary, though its not something I can put into words or speak to anyone about. It feels pathetic and silly, most of the time, and I find myself wishing I had better grasp on how to cope with this prevailing grief and rage. It colors my life in ways I cannot seem to control, and I fear it may begin to corrupt my perception.

Babette says these sorts of things take time, and we must learn to weather the storm that is our own emotions - that our greatest enemy is often ourselves, but that doesn't soothe my sorrow or ease my frustration.

I don't have time to deal with these sorts of things.


	20. Journal Entries 10

**[3rd of Sun's Height - 4E 203] - Windhelm**

A lot has happened in the past few weeks, and I'm not entirely sure where to begin. I haven't had the time or the energy to transcribe, but now that I have had some rest, I think it's time. This entry will no doubt be long winded, but I need time to compartmentalize all the things I've been thinking about and have been feeling.

Black Reach.

We found an opening into it by chance and tumbled into something out of a fable. Giant glowing mushrooms and underground waterfalls set against an alien environment. How anything can survive there is undoubtedly an example of the pervasiveness of life on Nirn.

I've said it once and I'll say it again: Falmer never fail to make me uneasy, nor do their giant insect pets. Their eyeless faces make me want to scream in horror, and I confess to having more than a few nightmares about them climbing out of the ground and trying to eat me. The steam automatons are equally expressionless and horrifying to behold in their jarring, stilted, and jerking movements. It's unnatural at best - haunting at worst.

Five days.

It took five whole days to scour through the entirety of the place, not including the connecting dwemer ruins that I declined to search. That is for another time - maybe - _if_ I ever go back. I'm not sure how I feel about that at this time.

Riches spoken of in tales of the place were tenfold, and it is a regret that I had not anticipated such a haul. I brought multiple bags of carrying that seemed to immediately be filled. Instead of hauling up so many smaller things, we anticipated the values of certain items and only took the highest priced treasures.

Marc had decided to pen some field notes on the nature of the flora and fauna of the subterranean landscape, as well as other observations he made. He spoke of long-dead culture and language and knowledge when he spoke to me his thoughts aloud, and reiterated that anecdote of a story he heard of a diseased Dwemer being found in Morrowind a long time ago.

Unfortunately, we were not met with entirely good fortune.

Of course, there had been many encounters with the 'citizens' of the Under Land of The Reach, and many automatons to dismantle and defeat - But there was one enemy we could not hope to combat.

The environment.

Spelunking into Dwemer ruins is often cited as dangerous for young, eager adventurers because of the dreaded Falmer and Dwemer steam contraptions - however, the real villain is structurally unsound walls and ceilings. Shifting dirt and Falmer's burrowing tunnels create instability within the stone, which causes frequent collapses and problems ranging from flash floods from broken underground sources to entire towers and hallways collapsing in on themselves - that, or a huge chunk of cave-ceiling falling down in front of you.

The previous of which happened to me early on the third day - except I was fortunate/unfortunate enough to be caught in the area of effect.

I place no blame upon anything other than my own growing comfort in the mage's presence, and as such cursed myself tenfold since the happening. If I had not been so soothed by his calming tones and frequently useful arcane abilities like wisp-lights and flame, I would not have been lulled into a fall sense of security. That is entirely my own fault, and I have sufficiently beaten myself up for it since. I will not further write any more about the event here, as I've already gone through it time and time again in my head.

There was nothing he nor I could do to prevent my injury, nor control the falling rock that fell from the ceiling onto half of my back and right side. I had done my best to avoid the debris, but it just wasn't possible to predict where it would land. Nothing more or less.

Of course, as a magic user well-versed in kinetic manipulation, the mage blames himself directly for this unfortunate happening. For some reason, he thinks he could have prevented my injury, and because of this I opted for taking care of myself. The man was altogether intolerable in my crippled state - worried and anxious with every tremor that was experienced in Black Reach. He had asked me if I was okay after the fact, and I knew if I said 'no,' he would have called off the rest of the expedition and would have tried to make me leave at least half of the loot so my injuries could be treated quicker in more clean, well-lit conditions. As such, I decided to hide just how injured I really was. The man would have been inconsolable if he knew the extent of my aches, and I didn't want to drag him down, nor lose out on exploration and loot.

I refuse to be a burden in any case, and that included this.

My armor is snug enough that it acts as a sort of brace, and because we hadn't gotten much rest - I hadn't needed to take it off for the remaining time we were in Black Reach. I was noticeably slower and less fluid in my movements, but if the mage noticed he didn't seem to say anything. It wasn't until we got back to the surface that the problems began.

I said before it took as an entire five days to scavenge the ruins of Black Reach, with nary a moments rest to sleep or eat, and when we could - it was in shifts, and done quickly. Exhaustion was at an all time high, and even if I had been at optimal health I am sure I would have felt equally pained as I had that first afternoon back on the surface.

We had entered the ancient city at Mzinchaleft (South of Dawnstar) and exited at Raldbthar, which is between Lake Yorgrim and The White River - close to Windhelm. The first order of business, then, was to get a good night's rest and sell the spoils of our travels to any discerning shop-keeper, and save the truly exceptional valuable pieces for the trip to Markarth to sell to Calcelmo, who would gladly pay _twice_ the market value of certain items for his scholarship.

Of course, I didn't want to think of business. I was tired, hurt, and just wanted a nice soft bed to sleep on and a warm, filling meal. I'd been chugging down minor health potions frequently to try and mend my battered body, but it didn't seem to be helping much. The pain would be soothed and numbed for a time, but each time it came back it seemed to be a bit worse. Finally, when we reached the entrance to the city, I was breathless, sweaty, and in pain.

I tried not to wince or let it show, but Marc was growing more concerned with each step. We managed to make it to The Candlehearth Hall in the city-proper before I was truly visibly affected. He wondered aloud if I, perhaps, had taken too much and strained a muscle - or perhaps exhaustion had gotten the best of me. I said nothing, just waved him off and told him to book us rooms. I would stay with the loot until he got back, I just needed to sit down for a minute.

I was angry at myself for being so weak. I had _only_ been smacked in the back by a rock - a rock large enough that I would consider it a _chunk_ , but not so much as to exaggerate and call it a _boulder_ by any means. The ceiling had fallen right in front of us - I was lucky to be alive, and I was managing myself just fine before walking in the cold path to Windhelm.

I was fine.

I _had_ to be fine.

I was just tired and sore, and a good night's rest was all that I needed. The ache in my ribs and the soreness in my back would alleviate as soon as I was comfortable and warm.

Marcurio came back with the awful news that we'd be sharing a single room, but this was levied by the fact that there were two separate beds on opposite sides of the large rented space. At this point, however, I was happy to get _any_ sort of comfort for my ailing body, sharing or no. I would have even slept in the same bed as the mage, so long as the mattress was soft and I had a nice warm blanket to cover myself with.

I tried to get out of my seat to help haul our loot into the room - but I was unable to. I wheezed and brought my hand to my side without thinking, and the mage immediately zero'd in.

"...You're hurt." He said, as if something important dawned on him. I bared my teeth at him and snarled out a quick denial.

"No! - I'm just - I'm _tired_ , and sore. I need to rest, eat, and bathe. Once I do this, I'll be just fine. Stop worrying - you're making a face." His frown deepened. "See, there it is."

"Is - is this from that collapse?"

"No." I answered, a bit to quickly and defensively. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set on edge. I managed to get myself out of the chair - much to my sore-feet's chagrin - and hoisted the pack of my half of the treasure into my grasp. I managed to get all the way to the room and put the pack down before the strain became a bit too much. I grew dizzy with pain, and swayed on my feet. Marc was there suddenly, grabbing my arm to support me so I wouldn't fall.

"You _are_ hurt." He half-growled in accusation. "When did this happen? It _was_ from the collapse, wasn't it? Why didn't you tell me?" He pressed. I ripped my arm from his grasp and bared my teeth at him again.

"I said I'm _fine_ , Marcurio. I don't need your help or your pity. I already told you, I'm _tired_." He crossed his arms, unphased by my anger.

"Then let me see. Show me." I was aghast - pressing a hand against my collarbone to steady myself against the woozy feeling of surprise.

" _What_? No - absolutely not. I'm not _showing_ you anything - !" I protested angrily. "Is this some sort of excuse to see me half-naked? It was a bit of a ham-fisted attempt at seduction, if I may say so - "

"Let. Me. See. Ulalume." He demanded, honey-colored eyes glowing hot with irritation.

"No." I was emboldened by his anger, sneering: "What are you going to do, try to force me? I'd like to see you _try_."

"If I must." His jaw was a tight line, arms flexing across his chest, trying not to reach for me. I snarled at him, almost reflexively, like a rabid dog caught in a trap. "Or I can jab you in the ribs with my fingers. If you aren't hurt, that shouldn't be a big deal, right? Your choice."

"Don't touch me." I drew back defensively, internally wincing at the prospect of a hard poke in the ribs. I'd probably die in agony right then and there, in the inn's room.

The two of us stared each other down, waiting for the other to flinch first.

Marcurio, compared to myself, was physically imposing - At least, for an Imperial who was not also strictly a soldier. Even the years spent gambling away his money and drinking his sorrows had not completely cut away the military physique he had acquired from his days of training to be a battlemage, He could possibly overtake me, perhaps not _easily_ but easy _enough_ that he was a vague threat - and of course, I was no match for magic.

I didn't think the man wanted to _hurt me_ , per se, it was just that if he _wanted_ to, he certainly _could_. He was a good head taller than me, at least, and a good measure heavier than I. He was also not built like a tank, and thus could not succumb to the hubris of heavy armor making him invincible, as most enemies who are bigger than I are accustomed to believing. He wore plain clothes, mostly, when out of the light armor I gave him, Even if I crippled his arms, he could still cast magic.

When it was clear I was not going to let him see my injuries without a fight, he opted for the roughness. To my dismay, I was easily overtaken (what with my injured state) and he quickly did away with my armor. First went the gloves - then the buckles at my back - with quick but gentle hands the man pulled free my arm from one of the sleeves of my cuirass and I was too tired to really fight him. My cuirass was pulled right off, and I was too exhausted to feel embarrassed at my half-naked state.

He paled considerably as I winced, gritting my teeth at the sudden lack of support against my ribs. When I looked down, I saw my entire side was covered in green and purple bruising, I pressed a hand gently against my ribs and it hurt to take the sharp intake of breath it caused. I suddenly felt like crying. I just wanted to lay down forever, even if it meant sleeping on the floor.

"...This." His face was expressionless, now. "...This...Was what has been bothering you?" His brow furrowed. "...And you didn't tell me."

I felt the flush of embarrassment start to creep up my neck. "I'm _fine -_ " I protested -

"This is not fine, Ula!" He raised his voice at me, and I flinched against the volume. Marcurio hardly raised his voice. "Look at yourself! Your body is half-covered in awful bruises. You've probably made your injuries worse, trying to push through them. Do you understand how serious this is?"

I felt like a child getting scolded.

"I can take care of myself!" I shouted back, enraged that he would speak to me in such a way. "I just need rest, like I said! I can stand, I can fight - I just - I'll bind it, or something - But I wanted to take a bath first or -" His face was growing red with anger, but his expression hardly changed.

"If you can take care of yourself so well, why do you have me around? I'm supposed to be your partner; I'm supposed to help you when you need it. You didn't tell me you got hurt this badly - I couldn't see in the dust of the collapse, and I _asked_ you if you were okay, and you should have told me the truth and - "

"I - "

"You thought you could just walk this off? A stone hit you, didn't it?"

"It wasn't a very big piece - " He moved into my personal space, and I withered.

"Not a very big piece - By Zenithar -" He cursed, "-What is this _really_ about, huh?" He challenged, "-Do you just - do you not trust me at all? Even still? After all the weeks we've been traveling together? Haven't I always had your back? Haven't I always been straight with you? Do you have something against restoration magic or something?"

"No - !"

"No?"

"No - restoration magic is fine - I just - I don't need you to coddle and scold me like a child, I'm a grown woman, I - "

"- I know that, but the way you've handled this suggests you're hopelessly immature. You don't _trust me._ " He sounded hurt, his voice cracking at the last part of his sentence. I steeled myself against the hitch in his tone and grimaced at him.

"I can handle myself. I've been by myself for a long time - I don't need any extra help. I'm _fine_. I just - I've got it under control. What would I have done if you weren't there? Exactly what I'm doing now. I'll be okay."

He frowned deeply, rage etched into his expression. "You're _handling it_? Really?" He drew back, as if the idea was revolting. " _Really?_ Because you looked pretty pained a few moments ago. What were you going to do, see a healer tomorrow? Continue to knock back healing potions until you gained a tolerance to them? Grit your teeth through the pain? Right. Sounds great."

"Shut up. I've dealt with worse. I knew if I told you, you'd be intolerable - "

"Did you ever stop and think about why? Hmm?" I stared at him blankly, the blood in my veins boiling. "No. I thought not. This is a serious injury. At the worst of it, you have internal bleeding - Causing dangerous pressure to accumulate in your chest. At the least of it, broken or fractured ribs - I suspect it's the latter, but I have no idea if its worse than that. You could _die_. You understand?"

I glanced away, and to my dismay tears had begun to sting my eyes. "...So? I know that'd be alarming to you, and you'd lose out on making more gold, but the nature of my life is dangerous. I've made peace with the possibility of death long ago."

I made eye contact with him, and he looked aghast.

"-You think this is about _septims_? You think - " He seemed to wheeze, then, and drew away from me. "-Are - Are you telling me that you _want_ to die?"

"No-! Absolutely not! There's a difference with being comfortable with the prospect of death and actively wishing it upon one's self."

"Then why didn't you tell me about this?" He gestured to my bruises and I drew my arm to cover my breast-band covered chest. "Why did you stay quiet? Because I'd worry? Because I'd blame myself?"

"You already had."

"Of course I did. But I can _help_. You don't have to rely on just yourself anymore, you know." I bristled against that.

"-Don't pretend you are traveling with me for reasons other than that the gold is good! As soon as I stop being lucrative, you'd leave in a heartbeat! How is changing how I think going to help with _that_? Don't pretend to care for me! I've had enough traitorous words in my life, so don't you _dare_ lie to me to my face so blatantly!"

He clenched his jaw visibly, and it almost looked as if the man wanted to slap me. I drew my cuirass around my shoulders with great difficulty and tried to buckle it once more. I couldn't, so I left it open.

"Right. Okay. Septims." He glanced away at some unseen corner of the room and sighed through his nose angrily. "...Look, I'm upset because - ...Dammit Ula, I thought we were friends. Or at least _starting_ to be friends. I care when you're hurt, because I have some semblance of care for _you_. You aren't just a meal-ticket - though I'd be lying if I said that the gold isn't good - you're...You're, at the very least, the closest friend I have in all of Skyrim."

I blanched at this confession and suddenly felt nauseous.

"...I don't have _any_ friends in Skyrim; I'll grant you _that_ \- but - ...You know, that just makes it hurt even more that you don't really trust me. I know we haven't been giving this partnership -"

"Business partnership - " I correct -

"-This _business_ partnership - we haven't been giving it a go for a long time or anything; a few months at most - but - We've been less than an arms-length apart for weeks and weeks, now. Every day. Spending just about every waking moment together. Surely you must have _some_ semblance of trust there, right?"

He searched my face, and when he didn't see what he was looking for, he frowned. "...I guess not." His eyes downcast, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "...Yeah. Okay. Nevermind."

"...Don't." I say, though I'm not sure exactly what I'm referring to. There are unspoken words there, heavy on his tongue - but I don't want to hear them. Not now, and especially not after he had all but scolded me as if I were an intellectually-impaired _child._

"What?"

"Do _that_. Say that." I amended. He gave me a confused look. "I will not be guilted into agreeing with you. I stand by my decisions, despite your personal feelings. I can't be expected to rely on you for every little thing. What if _you_ had gotten hurt too? What if-"

"That isn't what it's about, and you know it!" He raised his voice again, suddenly upset again. "I _wasn't_ hurt - that's the reality of it. If you needed help, you should have said something! How do you think I'd feel if you died from these injuries?"

"Oh, now you want me to focus on some sort of hyperbole? Some situation that hasn't occured? That isn't the _reality of it_ , now is it?' I shot back. He clenched his fists, and I thought he might try to punch me. I braced myself slightly, just in case - though he did not seem the sort of man to do it.

"You know that isn't the same at all."

"Is it not?"

He looks at me for a moment, then a defeated expression crosses his features. It makes my heart ache, but I am too angry to really notice.

"...Fine. If that's what you really think of me, and you have no plans to trust in me the way partners are supposed to - Then - then - " He searches for the words, and I interrupt him.

"-Then what?" I challenge, and to my horror I realize how much I _don't_ want him to say what I think he's going to say.

"...Then - I'm out. We're done." He says. "I don't want any part of this. The gold is good, but if you're going to be this way, _I_ can't put faith in _you_ either. You'd sooner stab me in the back and sell me to a daedra before you risk your own selfish greed. I don't like that sort of uncertainty. I've dealt with it more than a few times at the hands of others, and I will not have it here." The tension leaves my body, and what he's said to me hurts. It hurts _so much_.

"...You're just going to leave?" Panic began to sit heavy in my chest. "-Just like that?" Then the anger filled the rest of the emptiness.

"Just like that." He answered, warm eyes now cold with hurt and rage. "...As much as I don't want to." I scoff, my throat tight.

"-Right. I'm sure it's _so_ difficult for you. Traveling with a _thief_ has got to wear on one's _noble_ sensibilities, I'd wager - " I start, but he puts a hand up - slices it across his body in an negative motion.

"Enough!" He thrusts his finger into my face. " _You_ did this! You can't blame anyone but yourself for this. I've made my choice because you've forced my hand. You've wounded me, pushed me away - I, who have tried to be your friend. ."

"Wounded your _pride_ , perhaps." I snap back, trying to hurt him as he's hurt me.

"Think of me as you will." He retorts, unaffected "I'll have no part in this business venture if you can't be moved to trust your own partner with life and death situations."

"What are you going to do? Crawl back to Riften?" I prayed to Sithis that my voice wouldn't crack and I was blessed enough that it didn't.

"-Yes - Maybe - !" His fists are still clenched, white knuckled as nails dig into the wide palms.

"Fine!" I shout back. He seems hurt that I would readily agree with him, and it gives me a dark sort of satisfaction.

"I certainly have enough septims to do whatever I wish - and that includes going back to Riften! In fact, here - " He moves quickly, feet heavy and stomping against the old wooden floor of the inn. I dully think to myself that I'm surprised our shouting hasn't drawn the ire of the inn-keep yet. Marcurio digs into his pack and pulls out a heavy looking pouch "All the gold you initially payed me to join you - since we both know you're keen on breaking even. I don't owe you _anything_."

He shoves the coin purse into my hands without ceremony, shoving it into my chest with such rage that I stagger backwards and wince. I see a flash of concern on his features, but it is quickly hidden with more anger. I glare up at him in half-disbelief, half-irritation.

"You can't be _serious_ \- does my honesty affect you so deeply?"

"I _am_ serious. Watch me." He hoists his pack up and stomps out the door.

I was left in confused silence.

I thought, perhaps, that he was bluffing - to scare me, maybe. He had left his half of the loot from Black Reach, and I wholly expected him to come back several hours later, or perhaps sneak into the room after I had fallen asleep.

To my great dismay, I awoke to a room with the other bed empty and everything else where I had left it. I had trouble sleeping, what with the immense pain in my ribs. I made it a priority to find a temple priest in the city who could help heal me enough so that I was set to move on the road. I did so soon after eating a quick meal at the inn, however the priest there was not as well-versed in restoration magic (-not as well as the priestess in Whiterun at the Temple of Kynereth, at least) and as such the bruising and - yes, broken bones - had been healed, but it didn't stop the dull ache whenever I twisted my torso just so.

In my denial, I booked the inn room for another night and utilized the day selling what I could at the shops in town. I fetched acceptable prices, though I was still looking forward to going to Markarth to sell the rest. My annoyance with Marcurio settled into anxiousness, then doubt that he would return. This turned quickly into rage - then sorrow.

I...I hadn't meant to push him away. I know that he was trying his best, but he couldn't expect me to simply change so quickly. Friend or no - (and certainly, he was no friend to me just yet) I had made a decision and I stuck by it. I was used to being independent - I don't think I am in the wrong, here.

I regret that my honesty hurt him, as I knew it would; But I can't be blamed for it, either. He knew what sort of woman I was when we first entered into a traveling partnership. If he thought he could fix me, somehow, though I am not broken - if he considered himself a gallant knight to conquer the beast that is my mistrust, he was foolish.

As I write now, It is the second night of absence. Perhaps he will come to his senses, still.

* * *

 **[6th of Sun's Height - 4E 203] - Windhelm**

I don't think the mage is coming back.

* * *

 **[13th of Sun's Height - 4E 203] - Markarth**

This morning I recieved an urgent letter from Nazir.

 _I must speak with you in person. It's urgent._

I am certain that the mage is not coming back - and good riddance. If he cannot handle rejection, then I would have nothing to do with him.

Nazir is not one for exaggerated hyperbole, so when I saw the simple note I was taken immediately to panic. I was worried the Penetus Oculatus might have found us, or he had intel that suggested something similar.

I moved quickly, straight away to get transport to Dawnstar.

* * *

 **[21st of Sun's Height - 4E 203] - Dawnstar**

I am exhausted, physically and emotionally. There is much to transcribe, however, and I will do my best to keep it brief for the sake of my own mental health.

I arrived at The Dawnstar Sanctuary this morning, practially bursting through The Black Door as fast as it would let me. I dropped my things in the foyer and moved to immediately seek out Nazir. He was at his usual space near the stairs, and when he stood to greet me I was already asking him questions.

"What's happened? Is everyone alright?" I rush towards him. He holds his hands up.

"Everything is fine, My Listener, I just wanted to have a chat about our situation." I freeze momentarily at the _title_ \- the words so easily falling from his mouth in the dulcet tone he was known for.

"...Did something happen?" I start again, hesitant. "...Did we have a breach in security?" I ask, drawing closer to him. He beckons me to sit at the table nearby, and I do.

"No." He sits across from me calmly, face serious. "Nothing like that."

"Oh?"

"...I've been speaking with Babette - and she agrees; We really need to talk about the future of The Dark Brotherhood, My Listener."

 _That title. That damn title - again._

I'm disoriented slightly, so I stare at him in a dumb fashion and blink. "...What?"

"What is the plan? I've done all I can on my part - but I'm not the leader, here. You are. We've completed renovations. I've hired a few initiates. I've done everything you've asked me to do, and I've been doing my duties as Speaker. What's next?"

I feel my mouth go dry. Nazir has a slight eagerness to his expression that makes me suddenly anxious. I was the leader of The Dark Brotherhood, yes, but it also frighetned me to have such responsibilty suddenly pushed upon me once more. after having taken a break from it all.

"I - I'm not sure." I feel a bit foolish, now - I hadn't thought ahead this far. "We'll just keep doing contracts, like we have been. I think, in the future, we may scout for new locations to expand - or perhaps fix up old sanctuaries - "

"Of course, and I agree that would seem to be the most logical next step." Nazir nodded. "...Has The Night Mother said anything?"

"...No. Nothing like that. Just codenames and locations for contracts. I have a feeling she'll be a bit hands-off from now on; The circumstances before were...Very trying, as I'm sure you remember." A flicker of grief passes the normally unexpressive man's face before returning to normal.

"Yes." I consider his reaction, then sigh.

"...I can see if I can talk to her, however - if that'll make you more comfortable." He nods but makes no move to say nothing else. I take my leave, moving much slower to grab my things from the foyer. Babette is there, already, arms crossed and features too wisened for her child's face.

"You're back, Listener." She leans agains the cobbled stone wall. "...How goes the adventuring? Kill anyone interesting, lately?"

I feel her keen eyes on me as I distractedly pick up my things, feeling a dull ache in my ribs as I do. "...Not particularly, no."

"How's the mage?" I flinch, but play it off as shifting my weight to the other foot. I do not look her in the face. She is far too observant for her own good.

"...We are no longer traveling together."

"Oh? So soon?" Her voice is practiced with surprise, eyebrows raised just by the tone. "...Shame."

"Is it? The man was absolutely intolerable at best." I pause, wait for my indifferent mask to rise, count the seconds - 1, 2. I look into her face, hoping she can't see beneath it.

"You certaintly seemed happier. More settled." I said nothing, just moved my pack to the other hand. "And now?"

"Hm?"

"How do you feel now?"

"...I...I'm ready to take on the responsiblities you need me to. It will take some adjustment, however."

"Hmm." She looks at me closely, and I can see the age in her glowing eyes. "I'm glad to hear that. It was worrisome not knowing if you would step up to lead us properly. I'm very happy that you are back home." She gives me her best, most sweetest child-smile and opened her arms as an invitation to embrace. One did not simply deny her this affection, so I went with it. When we parted, she seemed a bit more somber.

"Thanks." I do not tell her a lie; I do not tell her I, too, am happy to be back home.

When I settle into my room and take a look around the newly renovated sanctuary, I move to speak to The Night Mother. The metal is cold against my hand as I open the coffin gingerly, bracing myself for the smell of embalming oils and the musky scent of mummified flesh.

Sitting in the near-dark of the room, I hesitantly call out to her, voice shaking with nervousness and a bit of reverence. I do not expect her to answer.

She does.

 _'Child_ , _'_ She hisses, voice raspy - like bony fingers gently caressing my scalp with talons that threaten to tear flesh - _'A task is at hand. Go to The College of Winterhold and speak with Phinis Gestor. Learn the dark art of Necromancy - Do this; And raise my favorite son from the embrace of the grave. The Keeper has unfinished business; And I have chosen_ **you** _to perform the ritual.'_

I am unsure of how to respond.

Normally, I was _taking_ life - not giving it back.

"...M-Mother, I am no mage - " I stammer -

 _'Child of Shadows, Daughter of Darkness - You_ _ **will**_ _do as Sithis commands. There is still much work to be done, and the gap must be bridged between the old and the new. The Keeper knows of The Old Ways; He will keep you true. Past wounds and scars must heal - You must empty yourself of grief and pain, as it should be. You are a useful conduit, and will serve your purpose. By Sithis' Command: So mote it be.'_

I gaze up into her shriveled face with disbelief. "...Yes...Mother." I acquience confusedly. "Of course. I am obediant to your will, and the will of Sithis. It will be done."

 _'Good. I look forward to the future of The Dark Brotherhood. I trust that it will remain in good hands.'_ I shut her coffin gently and move to leave, hands clenched in white knuckled fists.

The Night Mother didn't believe I could do this on my own, did she? Neither did Nazir. I tried to calm my breathing and make sense of what it was that she wanted me to do.

Bring Cicero back from the dead? How was that even possible? Necromancy was one thing, but zombies were not _intelligent_ \- they could not share thoughts and feelings. By The Void, they didn't even last long - burning out in only a few days time at best. Shambling, un-living corpses.

I spoke to Nazir about what The Night Mother's direction, and he seemed very dismayed. I can imagine that's not what he had in mind - and he reiterated his disgust for the soon-to-be-unliving jester and performers like him. Then he quickly relented, saying if it was The Night Mother's will - nay, _Sithis_ himself - of course, he had zero qualms with it.

I held my tongue when it came time to answer how _I_ felt about it. Truth be told: I wasn't sure. There are and were too many emotions swimming around in my head.

I suppose we'll have to see where this path leads.


	21. The Man Who Laughs: Part One

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but the next four chapters were originally one chapter, but it got out of hand - it ended up being like 15,000 words; Mostly because I really got into lore and explaining...Using only canon, on how the 'Dead Thrall' spell work in-universe. It was really fun to research and I hope y'all are ready for my succinct-as-heck theory-crafting of necromancy in the Elder Scrolls Universe. This info will come in handy in understanding stuff in my story later, so I tried to make it very detailed but simple as possible!  
**

* * *

The College of Winterhold was situated atop a precarious cliff that looked ready to fall into the Sea of Ghosts at any moment. It was bitter cold, freezing the air until it turned to blades against unprotected skin. It was the second-to-last place on Nirn I wanted to be - but it also felt good to be isolated so far from everything I'd been through.

I had secured my admission through means of charm, septims, and a facade of eagerness - I was posing as a scholar, a lesser-noble of Cyrodil by the name of Lady Ligeia who wanted access to the Arcanaeum and tutoring from a specific staff-member there. I appealed to their vanity; Their hubris over the long defunct Mage's Guild and to their jealousy of The Arcane College that had since been purged of all connection between the two since the Oblivion Crisis. I filled their coffers with one large sum (it pained me, truly, to part with such a sum-) and was given full student status.

It wasn't quite a break from reality, as I was there for a purpose, but there were some days that had hours where I had forgotten why I was really there. Normally I would consider that dangerous, but I decided to numb myself to any panic I felt early on.

I attributed my seemingly natural talent for learning magical theory (that I was certainly unaware of having in the first place) as related to my singular focus rather than some innate, genetic ability. I regarded study of the arcane the same as I would casing a house or other marked building - thoroughly and obsessively, with nary a detail missed. I was not distracted by the so-called 'politics' of the wizarding-world, nor was I particularly interested in the _philosophical_ 'why's and how's' of the spells I was doing...So long as I knew cause and effect. I cared about the _consequences_ to them, rather than _why_ they happened at all.

I was told by a few at the school that it was that sort of thinking that made me 'better' suited to the illusion branch, but that was not why I was here. It was unfortunate that my aspirations to learn magic had been suddenly given to me as a sort of _job_ from The Unholy Matron, but perhaps this was exactly the sort of push I needed to actually make me do it. Sithis only knows when I'd ever get around to it if not for this command.

Despite my initial doubts and fears, it had only taken me months what others would have taken a lifetime to learn. I stayed up late, filled every minute with study rather than allow myself to open old wounds of grief or newer ones of regret. My avoidance fueled me like skooma fueled the Khajiit - it was almost a necessary madness to keep me afloat.

I understood the intricate balance of symbols and will and the importance of ritual in conjuration magic. The hardest part was often the 'will' of the caster, and I had that in spades. I could not let doubt and fear stop me, though it often plagued my thoughts - and I constantly forced myself to push forward; even through the lack of high mana or the ability to cast as effectively as one who had been doing magic since childhood. Push Forward: If not for myself, for The Night Mother. Through me, her will would be done. I was a tool, a vessel; And it felt good to have solid direction again.

I knew what had to be done, and now I knew _how_ to do it.

The college had given me the necessary vocabulary and skills to actually make The Night Mother's desire into a reality. Often, I wondered what exactly was the _purpose_ of this exercise other than a test or of control - in Sithis' infinite power, could _he_ not simply take this task? Could she not?

Of course, I realized quickly, it wasn't entirely about the end. It was about the means. Was _I_ strong enough, was _I_ right for the job? Would I do _anything_ in the face of my own faith and doubt? I wanted the answer to be ' _yes,_ 'I wanted to do something right. The Night Mother promised it would heal old scars, and hopefully some of them would be mine.

There came a time when I had to present my theory to Phinis Gestor - the Master of Conjuration at the college, and my official teacher. This, of course, was met with equal parts concern and excitement.

Necromancy wasn't particularly _frowned_ upon in the College - (more politics I didn't care to learn about) - but procuring materials _was_ a bit of a controversy among the other scholars. _How_ one went about the study was always up for debate, and what sorts of subjects where okay to use.

It was no great secret that the others were a bit nervous around he and I - if not a bit scared of our chosen branch of spell-casting. I could understand that, as I shared a bit of their caution. Necromancy was toying with life forces and the Beyond - for Conjurers, the veil between Nirn and Oblivion was nothing more than a curtain to easily pull away and command. Even still, some fancied practitioners of Conjuration as simply madmen who were trying to play at being Gods.

In that line of thought, it is always best to be cautious. Perhaps it is right to fear Conjurers, who command legions of dead and daedra.

But more so - it put Phinis' concern into perspective. I had to be _careful_ , and I had to figure out a way to put my theory into practice by means that the others would find at least marginally acceptable. As it was, it's difficult to simply transport dead bodies across holds without laymen sabotaging subjects for 'moral' reasons.

I told him I knew of someone within the college circle who could arrange things for me.

He, of course, knew I spoke of Enthir. It turns out he too had utilized the crafty Dunmer before, though _his_ subjects were usually unclaimed bandits and Forsworn. I thought it ironic that a good many in the past could have came from my time as a mercenary. Of course, I kept this to myself.

It was when I told Phinis that I had a _specific_ subject in mind that he finally seemed to pause. When I told him for my desire of _permanency_ \- he completely froze.

 _"That's the path to Lichdom..."_ He had told me, voice cracked and uneasy.

 _"I don't plan on utilizing the theory to prolong my own life. I want to put a soul back into its original body. That's it."_

I told him, too, that ' _M_ _y physical mortal body would no doubt not be able to handle such things'_ \- in fact: _'Perhaps my body would still age, but my soul would not?'_ I was not _so_ practiced in the laws of necromancy or conjuration to know _what_ would happen if I even tried. I was no elf, whose body could last for hundreds of years. Of course, this is what I _said_ to him, as he only knew me as a normal Imperial woman whose natural life-span would reach ninety-odd winters if I was _lucky_.

Of course, as Dragonborn, this was simply not true. Phinis Gestor did not need to know this, however, nor the other people here who would gladly poke and prod me with their experiments. I myself was not completely certain what sort of magic made up the intricacies of my body and soul, but it was definitely not the same as a 'normal' Imperial woman. Either way; I had to be careful.

You see, Lichdom could come in many forms; Body-Hopping, Soul-Eating, Blood-Magic...There were many flavors of this corruption, and as Dragonborn I was already _naturally_ one of them.

There were many things I had learned here during my time at the college, and it made things Paarthurnax tried to tell me on that mountain long ago make a lot more sense. There had been warnings, riddles, and more than a few vague statements that I had never quite understood. Reading all the tomes I could about souls, magic, blood, and physical bodies in Nirn - I had came to the epiphany that dragons were effectively immortal - as I knew before - BUT - now I understood _why._ It was _because_ they ate the souls of lesser beings, including lesser brethren. When one life was used up or destroyed in battle, they would 'use' another.

Time, but as _currency_ \- in the shape of a soul.

It made sense, of course, with Akatosh being depicted as a dragon in most cultures, but it seemed so blatantly obvious I wondered why it wasn't common knowledge. Perhaps it was a mixture of their absence for hundreds of years _and_ the fear of delving too deep into magical theory.

Eating souls bought more time; **an exchange** , if you will. The time that the other creature was supposed to have lived is now 'yours' to use, as there is a _'finite'_ amount that must all be distributed, though perhaps not as evenly as mortals would like to believe. Just like currency, it can be _taken_ \- stolen, perhaps - or won. It could be hoarded.

Pushing deeper into more convoluted theories, 'finite' was only meant by _perception_ rather than an actual measurement of moments, as the more powerful/immortal one got - the less time itself made sense. For the Gods, there was only existence. The past, present, and future meant nothing because they existed in layers, not in a line. That was sort of frightening, if I'm to be honest.

The point of researching such a thing was more personal than for my task given to me by The Night Mother, though it had much overlap. The more technical side of the ritual hinged on it.

 _I_ was technically a dragon in human form - my soul is made up of the same exact things that theirs are. It was capable of being infinite, of lasting for Eras and Ages, and it would fuel my body's youth for that whole time.

This epiphany was met one late night, and it made me both scared and confused. I had planned my life around the idea that I would most likely die early, die young - the life I lead was not so safe. I could still _die_ at any time, of course, being 'immortal' did not make me un-killable, though I was not so keen on where all my 'time' would go - redistributed, perhaps, but certainly not taken by mortals whose bodies could not handle it. I had half-theories and thoughts about that, but none of them seemed to fit. Time, perhaps, was also a _thing_ that had intelligence of some kind, or perhaps acted on a set of rules and laws of nature that I had no way of studying.

I tried to soothe the worry and help Phinis swallow his fears, but it did not seem to help. At the same time, however, it seemed he did not want to interfere. As basic principle here at the college, we are free to study whatever we wish. He commented, however, that my driven - almost _obsessive_ \- nature about the study seemed to be a bit unhealthy. I had tried to learn nothing else in my time here. He questioned me: _Was I in too deep? Was I being corrupted with madness_? Perhaps a bit, but it was in service to The Night Mother - though, he did not know this either.

 _It is not your job to tell me weather or not you think my theory is_ moral _, sir._

He agreed with me, but still framed his concern as if it were merely an intellectual debate.

He started to go on about his concern for my desire in permanency and the state of my mental health if it did not go as planned. It worried him that I was simply interested in conjuration as a means to hide grief for my subject, and as such was only in it for figuring out how to resurrect my lost loved one.

That...Was uncomfortable to consider, so I let myself hide under The Night Mother's command. It was what I was here for. That exact thing, but not to cope with grief or -

\- It was just _business_ , something I had to do to fulfill my duties as Listener. I was good at business, and I always put 100% into everything I did.

His concern, of course, as usual, was not unfounded. It is a well-known fact that raised thralls are never 'themselves' in the way that personality nor memories come back, too. It was simply the 'life-force' puppeteering the body, but the brain and the will - the _soul_ , if you will - was not there.

To calm him, I directed him to my notes. I had discovered several runes and revealed an incomplete sketch of my plans for a transmutation circle and summoning circle, then combined them into one interlocking ring. This would (hopefully) negate such an effect. I was not simply calling the primordial forces back, but harnessing the very same soul that belonged to the body in a resonance energy by way of call-back.

Essentially, I was telling the soul to shove itself back into its original body, which would make it work the way it was supposed to.

The problem with normal necromancy was the lack of ability to do that, and also the fact that most 'primordial forces' that puppeted the body were simply wisps or muscle memories encoded into the flesh. It was, essentially, a zombie. An empty shell. The body, if looked at like a machine, needed the original operator to function correctly.

My theory, of course, was rooted firmly in conjecture. Even if such a thing could be done, it was a largely kept secret only found in long-lost grimoires of dead Liches and master necromancers. I doubted, however, that such a powerful and thought-challenging thing could be kept secret. What I was proposing was nothing short of ambitious, to say the _least_. I, a lowly student of the College of Winterhold, with barely a grasp on magical theory and unpracticed as a mage. I would not classify myself as a wizard of any merit, and if asked about my status as a magic-user - I would say that I was not even adept at it.

Perhaps this was not entirely true, but I found myself enjoying more physical approaches to destruction and chaos rather than through the second-hand means of will and power from Oblivion. There was something truly satisfying about feeling the real weight of a blade in hand, of a bow slung across my back that magic would never fill. Magic was a useful tool to me - something I had always been interested in learning; but now that I felt it within my palm, it was the almost the same as Shouting. It felt impersonal, detached, and almost a bit silly. I was unused to the sensations, and frankly: a bit awkward and uncomfortable.

Natural talent I had, perhaps - but that did not make me a wizard.

And echo from my past. _'All mages use magic, but not all magic-users are mages.'_

I found myself begrudgingly drawn to the scholarly aspect of such study - and perhaps in a better world I would have been a sort of historian or anthropologist; someone of great status who wrote books on ruins plundered and long-dead societies. Maybe I would have traveled the world.

But this was not that world, and I was here for a purpose other than my own enjoyment.

Phinis had been startled by my quick, concise answer and seemed to desire to study my sketch more closely - though now it was _I_ who worried about _him_ becoming too power-hungry.I snatched my plans back from him as politely as I could muster. I then told him of my plans to burn all notes of research and give the culmination to Urag for safe keeping in the Vault. Without my notes, the symbols could not be decoded and the ritual could not be safely completed.

(Even if one tried, they'd have to be in possession of either many _many_ black souls for the blood-price exchange rather than just my one soul, bolstered by the many other dragon souls I'd absorbed.)

Phinis' concern then turned to the very same thing - the blood-price. He was not squeamish about blood-based magic, nor of the soul trade; Just that I would not be able to pay it and possibly put others on the grounds in danger. I told him I of _course_ completed many calculations that would prevent such an obvious mistake from happening, and also hinted at a loophole or two that I knew of to help him relax. I even offered to do my spell off-grounds, far from civilization to the north in the ice-fields, if he so desired. For safety reasons.

He denied me this level of privacy, saying he wanted to make sure I was close by in case something happened. He wanted to make sure I was alright and mentally sound after the ritual. More so, if I was successful - I would be changing the very history of necromancy - and he wanted to be there for such an occasion. He lamented that it was a shame that the very nature of my research would force me to keep much of my materials and epiphanies from the masses, including even my own teacher. He understood the caution in keeping secret the very idea of raising the dead back properly, rather than mere puppets for servitude. It was dangerous knowledge, if put in the wrong hands. And there were many, many wrong hands to put this sort of magical breakthrough in.

In truth, I was not very worried. Much of the conjecture was based in actual magical academia, but the ritual itself was tailor-made for my own personal use. It relied heavily on the fact that I had a dragon soul _and_ pledged allegiance to Sithis. The ritual itself drew the intended and I together in bonds, much like Lucien LeChance and I - though I wasn't to clear on what exactly that _meant_ at the moment. I suppose in time I would see.

And so it was that Phinis Gestor was marginally satisfied - if not wary - of my decision to go through with the ritual as planned.

In the week or so that passed as I waited for the body to be delivered via Enthir's means, Phinis Gestor created a space for me in a lesser-used wing of the college and helped me haul my supplies into the room I would be preparing the spell in. I told him it could take as short of a time as a few hours - and at most: A whole day. I had to be in full concentration the whole time, and I requested not to be disturbed during the ritual. He, of course, knew of the delicate nature of such incantations and agreed to inform the staff and students on my behalf. I would have no disruptions or curious eyes prying near the wing.

And so came the day that the coffin arrived.


	22. The Man Who Laughs: Part Two

Enthir had the coffin delivered straight to the front gates and directed it to the wing Phinis had sequestered for the ritual. The dark-stained wood was shrouded in thick black cloth, and it came with a hand-written note. I recognized the swirling script to be Nazir's careful craftsmanship.

It read:

 _'Be Careful.'_

I kept this warning in mind as I gathered the materials and set them up appropriately. White chalk to draw the circles and symbols, candles of various sizes to illuminate the dark room and to create more energy, five (empty) black soul gems placed in the shape of a star to be kept outside of the circle (used as focusers), two deathbell flowers, three nightshade blossoms, a small basket of red mountain petals; And a few other bits and bobs that I had to keep hidden from the school's ledger and get via Enthir's more unsavory methods: A human heart, a vial of dremora blood, and a sanctified silver dagger.

I arranged these in the proper order along the circle and looked at my handiwork.

Three hours were spent in total double and triple-checking that each symbol was placed and drawn correctly. Another hour to be sure the rest of the materials where exactly in the correct order, referencing notes and personal intuition. Another hour was spent in silence, wandering around the cold cobble-stone and brick built room, just staring into the spider-web filled corners and emotionally preparing myself to open the coffin soon.

When I was _almost_ ready, I lit the candles. I touched each wall with shaking fingers, trying to ground myself and commit to the thing I was about to do.

I realized quickly that there was no preparation that could fully help me come to terms with things. Past hurts sang with fresh pain, and new fears sprang to the front of my mind. Phinis' concerns left me with doubt that seemed to threaten to cut me in half.

Who was I, thinking that I could do what no other had done before? Who was I but a magic in-adept who thought I could somehow practice master necromancy? What did I _really_ know? What sort of power did I have? What could I do that someone _better_ , more _educated_ could not? I was nothing but a thief, stealing knowledge that was never meant to be mine. An assassin; a killer of proper academia and a conceptualizer of ill-begotten conjecture.

Surely I was not good enough for such an undertaking. Truly, I could not hope to take on and succeed in such a task. Why had The Night Mother chosen me? Why did she pick _me -_ above others better suited, whomever they may be - to raise her favorite son back from the dead? To free him from his beloved Void's grasp? Why take him from The Court of The Dread Lord at all? What purpose could that serve, other than to resurrect old pains and punish me for sins committed?

Was that the point? Was this the lesson? Was it about futility? Obedience? Was it about doubt vs. faith? Was it practical, or simply to be a means to an end? Was I destined to fail? Was this The Wrath of Sithis in a different form? And most importantly:

 _Why me?_ _Why him? Why this?_

I mediated on these questions for a few long minutes with nothing to show for an answer after I was finished.

When Mother first told me what I had to do, I had been unsure but hopeful. Now, I was utterly terrified.

What if it went wrong? What if he was reanimated into an unfeeling zombie? What if it caused him pain? What if it only lasted a few moments and he turned to ash? I would be killing him _all over again_.

These fears plagued me, and I was on the verge of mental collapse.

Horror struck me as I imagined him, shambling - groaning with pain as his corrupted soul slammed into his body, ill-fit and leaking into Oblivion. An abomination, life flickering but only pantomiming and piloting a flesh-puppet that felt only agony and confusion. I shivered. Surely, he had been a traitor - surely, Cicero was not a good man; But he did not deserve _that_. Least of all for a punishment directed at me, or for a lesson reserved for the both of us that was _supposed_ to heal.

The Night Mother's definition of healing could very well be akin to _cauterization_ or an _amputation_. Some sort of cruel irony. I had no way of knowing until the pact was complete.

I thought, perhaps, the time for stalling had come and gone at this point. I would never know the answers to my questions until it happened - I had to suck it up and press forward.

In theory, I was ready. In practice: I was not.

I did not want to open the coffin. I did not want to look upon his corpse, so still and silent. I did not want to feel the chill of his skin; to see the fading constellations of freckles on his too-pale face.

Most of all: I did not want to fail and watch as (what had been arguably) my closest friend shambled and groaned with pain and horror. I did not want to corrupt him further, let another spirit occupy his frame. I was terrified he would become an abomination; that I would be unsuccessful and let him turn to ash between my fingers. I was scared I would die in the process of the ritual - Me, Ulalume; Child of Darkness and Bringer of Death was afraid to meet Sithis in his dark and cold glory.

Moreover: If I failed, then the jester would be well and truly gone. _Forever._

There were no second chances here. There was either success or failure.

I don't know if I can handle failure.

I am a tool: Useful. I have a purpose, and my purpose is to rebuild The Dark Brotherhood. The Night Mother set me on this path, and I had to prove that I could be trusted to complete any task my Matron set before me. If I did not do this, If I _could_ not do this - then I had nothing.

In this moment: I had to be absolutely sure. Calm. I had to trust The Lord and Lady of The Void to keep their end of the bargain. I had to be unflinching against the pain to come. The ritual was a bandage, a covering for agony that would be ripped off - And soon, the healing would come. _That's what she said_. I trusted that. In whatever form it would manifest, I had to trust my Matron to deliver. I focused on it, let it become my motivation.

I centered myself, allowed my mind to be cleared of much of the worry and fear and let it be filled with the silence of The Void.

I forced myself to pull the jester's body free from his not-so-final resting place and with great difficulty I managed to pull him to the prepared space for the ritual. I did not dwell nor allowed myself to look upon his countenance, unfettered by rot and stink by the power of Sithis. I did not see how he simply looked asleep, peaceful, long auburn eyelashes fanning against cheek and mouth too taut and straight to belong to him. (Of course, I did - and I regret to say that it made my throat burn with grief and old rage.)

I sat there, in the quiet, just looking upon him - remembering all the times he had made me feel less alone.

I had mourned this man for too long; This wretch, who had caused so much chaos and discord within The Dark Brotherhood. On the stage of Nirn, perhaps that had always been his purpose. What was mine?

I never considered if perhaps he had been right to stage a violent coup against our late ex-leader. Of course, we both knew Astrid did not have the group's interest in mind - just her own - but was what happened even worth it in the end? Should I have spared him?

I could not have known the things that would happen. All I knew was that I had to perform damage control. I had to fix what he had broken. I had to regain the distance he had sundered with the rest of the group. I did not know that it was all for nothing - That Astrid would betray us - _me_ \- and ruin everything, despite any effort on my part. He had tried to warn me she would be our ruin, and he...He _had_ been _right_.

Even still, despite all this- There had been a time when I looked to him for guidance. This was exactly why. He could see things that I couldn't, either due to experience or some strange other sight that I did not possess myself. The Night Mother wanted me to do that again - and despite my own personal feelings, I had a feeling she was right to assume that if anyone could help me rebuild a stronger Dark Brotherhood, it was The Keeper.

I admit, I was nervous about that. There was bad blood between us now, and still truths hidden that were too hellish for me to consider entertaining. I had killed this man, thought I had been doing _the right thing_ \- could he ever trust me again?

It wasn't a question of loyalty. The man was loyal to The Brotherhood, and I _am_ what makes us The Dark Brotherhood. But it still hurt to think that perhaps we would never recover - we would be two people, working together for our faith but never meeting eye to eye. We had once been close, and I had never been certain what it meant until I had my hand forced to strike against him. And still; These truths, uttered in despair to a dying man now shamed me. He _knew_ my mind, knew what I thought of him all those months we spent together. I had told him, because he was bleeding out. He had to know - but now...I wasn't so sure that my honesty had been good to share.

What would change between us, with all this now laid bare?

It was true that The Keeper and I had formed an unorthodox friendship; one that I was still coming to terms with that had begun on the basis of manipulation. The truth of the matter was that the man had wanted to groom me; be on his side of the war he wanted to wage against Astrid. I was new, and could be molded by his opinions. He saw in me my eagerness to belong, and I am still ashamed of being so easily read.

But this was also a man who had then promised to throw himself upon any blade to protect me, as I had been chosen by his God as a specimen of perfection. He had pride there, too, in knowing that it had been _him_ who had made me into the right kind of assassin to become The Listener; though, there had been many innate qualities in me that helped decide my fate. I was conflicted on this: Weather or not to share in his pride, or to be angry that he had the audacity to take responsibility for something I was already.

Although there had been this tension there, I could look back now and say without a doubt that I cared for him, despite the grief it brought me in the end. Even with his manipulations, he had always been struck by his real, actual need for my affection and it had made our friendship more real.

He had coaxed from me, with limitless patience and well-timed jokes and affectations - genuine happiness. Smiles. Laughter. Joy. Exhilaration. And there had been many times when he had let me rage, let me be upset - let me emote with grief and pain with only necessary intervention. He never questioned my methods, and had seemed to understand that I had trouble articulating how I really felt. He knew how to read in between the lines to supply me with what I needed.

He may never had been completely honest with me, but he had always been loyal - if not to me, then to The Night Mother.

But that was enough. The time for memories had came and gone.

It was time to begin.


	23. The Man Who Laughs: Part Three

**A/N: Alternative Chapter Name: The One Where The Ritual Finally Takes Place. Or better yet: Author, Please Get To The Point Already!**

* * *

There was an incantation that had to be said, something to summon the brokers of the soul trade in Oblivion. I communed with the Ideal Masters, as they called themselves, and in turn they demanded _my_ soul. I was not terribly shocked by this revelation but was unsure of how to proceed. Surely _this_ was not the price? How could I rebuild if I was dead - or locked away in some other dimension?

I faltered, I admit, and I felt my soul being pulled and stretched from my body. My soul was too large - too strong willed to be captured. The pain was a temporary price. A near-death, a sapping. I cringed against it, the tearing feeling - red, hot, searing - An emptiness began to grow within me, a space that I could not describe as my body became a husk and I was reminded of the burning taste and the horror of the dragons I had swallowed as their souls fused with mine.

I _felt_ Mother's voice, though I didn't hear it; caressing, bony fingers with sharp talons that threatened to dig deep. It was like a purging fire. I suffered, but for a purpose. It was warm, filling the emptiness with comforting whispers and shadows.

I whispered a plea into the darkness, digging my nails deep into my palms as I resisted against Oblivion tearing my soul into pieces. I had not bargained this - I had not agreed to a price. I offered something in peace: I would bleed for them, so they could taste - but I could not surrender a soul that was no longer my own. I belonged to The Dread Lord, and who among them could stand against Sithis?

A master-stroke. A great, chilled hand around the throat of the Ideal Masters. There was fear, visceral and ancient. _Cheater_ \- they called me, for I did not pay a sufficient price. Lesser men had bowed before them and had offered them whole countries of souls in exchange for life - thousands of innocents, the blood of armies. I was simply a girl, a dragon in a woman's body, my blood was not enough - though they thirsted for the power within.

And there it was.

The thirst outweighed the logic - for who among them had tasted Dovah? Who, in their hive mind, could boast to tasting the ancient magic that lied within immortals - those who they could never touch? And I offered it to them; A gift, a peace offering - wrapped in a pretty bow. Power was intoxicating. My argument was persuasive, and so they relented with much frustration and thirst.

I felt myself trickle back into my limbs, filling out the spaces with tingling and trembling pieces. I rose to my feet and told the Ideal Masters what I desired. They promised to deliver; all that was left to wait. The contract was complete; The ritual was nearly finished. I split my palm open with the blade and let the chalk circles drink the blood from the gash. My price had been payed - payment recieved. The chalk lit up like the glowing mushrooms of Blackreach and I backed away from it with cautious feet.

There were a few long agonizing moments of silence as the glowing brightened to blinding levels - then, all at once, the glow ceased and all the candles were blown out. The only sound came from my own breathing, panting brought on by expectation and anxiety.

I had anticipated an almost immediate gasp, or a jolt of the limbs. Instead, I was left in darkness with a silent corpse. I found it ironic. I felt my muscles relax, hands unclenched - nails leaving deep crescents in my palms. The cut had already clotted and dried, though the tension hadn't soothed much of soreness.

Did I fail? Was this all for nothing? Was this a cruel joke, or tragic twist of fate? Was this the true lesson? Would the Lord and Lady be displeased with me?

I fumbled in the darkness, practiced eyes already beginning to adjust to the low level of light, reaching out for him to see if I could feel the warmth of life trickle back into his frame. To my temporary confusion, the flames of the candles began to light themselves - soft puffs of magic that then moved quickly over the room in a wave; My eyes squinting as they were forced to adjust and then -

\- Suddenly -

His eyes moved behind closed lids, long eyelashes fluttering. I _felt_ his soul dip back into his body like a hesitant foot stepping into cold waters. Warmth bloomed in his skin, _life -_

I reared back as he tried to stand, copper eyes still dull-blue with death, and I worried nervously that I had done something _wrong,_ that I was not successful - He got to his knees, and I cringed at the imagined shambling nature he might take on - but then my fears were quieted as he pulled himself up with some intelligence that I found comforting.

No shambling. No moaning or slack-jawed zombification.

I skittered backwards, my back pressing against the cool stone wall of the room as he straightened each of his limbs carefully, hesitantly. Once that was complete, there was a moment of silence and stillness again - and then he doubled over, hand on his stomach. At first I was horrified, knowing for certain in my panic that I had done him a disservice, I had caused him pain that could have been avoided had I been more _careful_ -

Until I realized what was happening.

At first I thought he might be sobbing, the way he shuddered and used his knees to support his upper-half. It was jarring - But then my eyes adjusted again in the dim light level and it was then that I knew what he was really doing.

 _Laughing._

Laughing with such breathless force that he nearly toppled over, and I saw tears gleaming in the dim light - liquid glass against alabaster.

A wide and sharp white-toothed grin slashed across his face, and he straightened once more - tears staining his freckled cheeks. I tried to stand but could not. His velvet hand wiped the wetness from his face and he took in a shaky breath, then snorted as if he wanted to start up the laughing again. He didn't. He composed himself with little flourish, fixing and preening his disheveled costume. A roll of the shoulders, a crack of his slender neck.

Eyes open.

Copper burned in the dim light like embers, flashing like the fire of the candles for a moment before settling onto my face. The grin stayed, and he spoke -

 _'Cicero is at your service, Oh Great and Powerful Listener_.' And he bowed in that exaggerated way that he always did when he greeted me. The familiarity was painful. Seeing him so _alive_ was strange. I didn't believe any of it happened. It was still settling in.

 **Cicero was** _ **alive**_ **.**

We were both still, he looking up at me through auburn strands, bent in his bow - and I, seated, still posed in recoil from what had taken place moments before - and we were silent. The moments seemed to tick by like honey trickling into a glass jar.

Then I broke down.

Relief - joy - _horror_ \- all flooded my senses so that all I could do was cry. Had I not been so preoccupied with emoting, I might have found his genuine surprise at my reaction to be funny. He straightened and recoiled slightly, as I had, and concern washed over his face.

He met me on the floor, kneeling, throwing the stupid belled hat to the ground with haste. He took me into his arms and I resisted him. He smelled of funerary flowers and dust, and I did not want him so near. My heart was black with mourning and old rage. The last time we had been so close, he had been bleeding to death, and it had been my hand which struck the blow.

"Don't...Don't touch me..." I pleaded words I did not mean, covering my face as I batted away his hands. His expression was serious and sober, and his arms were unyielding. I did my best to push him away, but he was stronger and more patient than my tears were. He did not even seem hurt, as another man might be if a woman rejected their touch. He wrapped me in his arms in a constrictor-like vice, and all at once it felt as if a warm, comforting blanket had been thrown over me.

He was familiar. He felt the same as he always did. He was not a monster or an abomination. He was _**alive**._

I sobbed, fighting the embrace until I was too exhausted to do so. Emotionally and physically, which meant it didn't take long. He held me there, whispering sweet, comforting things in a soft voice that I could not hope to process in my hysterics. Nevertheless, the warmth of his body and his presence soothed me. I soaked the front of his shirt with my grief for a long time, and when I finally stopped shuddering, he let me go.

He held me at arms length and said - "You know, Cicero figured you'd at least be a _little_ happy to see him." And I laughed in surprise while wiping the tears from my face. He sounded like himself, too - even the quirks of his syntax where there.

I felt awful. His hands held my shoulders down, and it took considerable effort to draw my hand across my face to dry my eyes and nose with my sleeve.

"This...Is not how I imagined this would go." I confessed, breathless with grief. His palm drew up to my face hesitantly, then a velvet-gloved hand pressed thumb to cheekbone, as if to hold my face there - as if I would disappear.

"No?" He searched my face with slight confusion. "...Hm...Was Cicero supposed to arrive with more flourish? Perhaps...Juggle a few skulls? Tell some jokes? We can start again, if you like! Cicero will get it right this time. Let me just lay down and you can wave your hands over me and - "

"-You were never very good at jokes, Keeper." I said, my voice still thick from crying. I sniffed, hating the vulnerability I was expressing. I tried to hide my face from his again but his hand held my chin firmly. Ah, so that's what he was doing - forcing me to look at him. I fought the urge to resist his touch but remained nevertheless.

"No, Cicero wasn't, was he? Hmm...Perhaps I shall think of riddles, then?" He smiled manically with remembrance. "Cicero and Ula _always_ came up with the best riddles on the road between contracts. It was grand fun!"

I couldn't help but smile at that memory. "Yes. But perhaps not now."

He sobered again. "...This is not like what Ulalume thought it would be like, is it?"

"Yes. I thought you would be...Angry. I thought I would be, too. I thought -"

"Ula did not think she would succeed, did she?" He asks, his mouth pulling into a slight frown. "Did you not trust in Our Lady?"

"No, that's - that's not it." In truth, I had expected myself to feel _much_ more anger, more grief at the sight of him - but all I felt was relief.

And I felt warm and less alone. I could _feel_ him - differently than before. We were as one, but separate. We were close in life as we were in his death. A shared moment had become _this._ It was like we shared the same space, but did not occupy it. It was like his hand had outstretched from the ether, and I reached back - and the ritual had simply bound them together. I was aware of his every breath, every small movement he made involuntarily - the manic twitches of his fingers, the shift in his gaze. It was almost like they were mine.

He seemed to feel this too, seemed to understand our new connection without my ever saying anything out loud about it - I knew this because his concerned expression melted into one of acceptance. I remembered then, how we used to be - how it had been before things had gone so terribly wrong, and we had been forced against each other. He could finish my sentences if I let him. He could speak for me before I even knew what I was feeling.

What would happen now that we shared the same bindings to Mundus?

We would have to make due, whatever happened. By the Lord and Lady's decree - we had never been meant to be apart.

"Yes." He said simply, face softening as if answering my thoughts, pressing his velvet palm more gently against my cheek. "I know." I knew he could not read my mind, but it _almost_ felt like he could. "Dear Cicero will keep you from harm, sweet Listener. Forever...And Always. It is what Mother wants." His mouth twitched into a small smile. "It is what Cicero wants, too." I reared back in surprise and disdain for such blatant affection for me.

This was happening all too fast, and all at once. I had to stand my ground. I wasn't sure what he could remember - what he knew, or if he had seen from The Void all that had transpired. If he thought that we could simply move forward from the revelations we had there, on the day of his death, it was simply incorrect. I was a different person than I was then.

"...No, wait - I - " He clamped his hand around my mouth, encompassing my chin with his velvet-clad palm. He, too, seemed surprised with himself.

"Oh, no! Let's not speak of... _Those things._ " A pained expression crossed his face. "Sweet Ula is not ready, and...Neither is The Keeper. Too soon, too soon! I didn't mean to be so - I just - Cicero is sorry. It's too soon, I barely remember how to breathe. Let's not talk about it yet." He paused as if he expected I would protest. I didn't. He cast me a curious look, narrowing his eyes. "I know what Ula is really worried about. Does silly Cicero look like a vengeful spirit? A shambling corpse, thirsting for his Listener's blood? No! Of course not." He grinned. "Of course not." He repeated, a bit more quietly, mostly to himself. His hand fell away.

"...Okay...We'll - yes...Later."

"Yes, later. All in due time. A few moments to just be is in order. Cicero thinks he's earned it."

He was right. I wasn't ready to talk about what happened yet. I was barely ready to accept I had brought him back to life. He was so solid and real and _himself -_ I could barely stand it. He broke the silence that settled once more by clapping his hands together. I flinched at the loud noise, which amused him.

"So! What now, Listener?" We stood.

"Uh - " I floundered to regain my composure and sense of self. How did one recover from what I had just done? I, a novice mage in practice, have done what masters would not dare to do. "...How do you feel? Do you feel like you're fading? Does your body feel weird? What's going on with - "

"Cicero feels fine!" And to demonstrate that fact, he did a cartwheel. "See?" And then a handstand. I had to speak to him while he maintained this pose. I quirked my head so it didn't feel so awkward speaking to him upside-down.

"Uh, okay - well, that's good!" I feigned cheerfulness until I truly felt it in my heart again. "Please let me know if you feel sick. I want to make sure - that - that - " I could not bring myself to say the words. It felt foolish to say them aloud. He gracefully tipped over onto his feet, face sober with unspoken certainty.

"...That I stay...?" He offered. I nodded, my throat tightening.

"Yes." He furrowed his brow.

"Cicero would not even dare to _think_ of leaving. Loyal Cicero could have _spiders_ eating his _face_ off, and if Ula told him to stay still, he would. He probably wouldn't even scream!" The imagery disturbed me slightly, but he said it with such earnest that it made me huff out a surprised laugh. This seemed to pick his spirits up.

"I...I believe you."

And I did.


	24. The Man Who Laughs: Part Four

And so it was that we came up with a plan.

There was no reason that Phinis had to know I had been _successful_ , right? It seemed far too dangerous to have them seen my face _and_ see The Jester, with his easily identifiable hair and costume. If I ever had wanted to appear mask-less as the Dragonborn in the future, it would be easy to make the connection between myself and The Jester, and then perhaps The Dark Brotherhood. I had to think of things like this, and so I decided it was best if the ritual had been seen as a failure. It was not so much of a stretch to fake this.

I burnt my materials, scrubbed the floors, and gathered the ash into a jar. I gave orders to Cicero to meet me under the college, in the Midden, and we would slip out that night; stay at the inn, and then return to Dawnstar with haste. He was eager to see The Night Mother once more, and to resume his duties as Keeper.

I spoke to him briefly about his purpose, and he seemed overwhelmed with such an honor that when I left him I was sure he would shed a few tears of joy in my absence.

I presented Phinis Gestor with the evidence of my 'failure', face still tear-streaked and eyes red. He seemed overwhelmingly disappointed, but made sure to comfort me. It was difficult pretending to be so broken up about the whole thing, and it irritated me that the man was too preoccupied with asking me about what had happened in detail to really be effective in his attempt to be soothing.

Of course, I told him that I was terminating my status at the college, now that I was disgraced. He seemed to understand my position, but tried to convince me to stay. I did not relent. I told him I was leaving in the early morn - and that was final.

And so it was I packed my things, slipped out of the dorms, and made my way into the Midden.

Goodbye Lady Ligeia.

The Jester and I walked the cold pathways in silence, and when we came out along the Sea of Ghosts, we moved quickly to make it back to the city proper and get to the inn.

I had enough time at this point to properly organize my thoughts.

"We need to talk." I say, sitting across from him on the second bed in the rented inn room. He sits, then, too. Eyes downcast and mouth pulled into a thin line.

"The most dreaded thing a person could say." He joked, hands nervously worrying at one another. "But Cicero supposes you are right, Listener. It is time." I decided to be forthright.

"Astrid is dead."

He stiffens, whole body going taut. He gazes up into my face with unabashed excitement, a grin threatening to split his face in two. "...Truly? How?"

"...It's complicated, but - " I steel myself against what I'm about to say. "... **You were right.** She betrayed us. Betrayed _me_. She sold us out to the Penitus Oculatus in exchange for immunity, but she failed to realize she had been outplayed."

"It is as it should be, then." He grinned, eyes too bright. " _Tenet II: Never Betray The The Dark Brotherhood or It's Secrets. To Do So Is To Invoke The Wrath of Sithis._ " He recited. "And who had the honor of the killing blow?"

"...I did. With the Blade of Woe. The Penitus Oculatus destroyed the Falkreath Sanctuary with fire, and with it - Festus Krex, Veezara, and Gabriella." He sobered a bit at this news.

"Oh." A pained expression flickered across his face before something struck him - "And Arnbjorn? What of Astrid's lapdog? Did he burn, too?"

"I think you'll be pleased to know that yes, he died as well." This seemed to cheer him a little.

"He underestimated Cicero. But I do mourn the others, despite their attitudes towards me. Cicero saw potential in each of them."

"Astrid saw the error of her ways, in the end."

"Don't they all?" He smirked. I couldn't help but smile back, despite the subject matter.

"...Her hubris was her downfall, but in the end she humbled herself. It doesn't absolve her of her sins, and I pity her for that - but listen, Cicero: She prayed to The Night Mother. She was the Black Sacrament, and the target. I killed her to end her suffering - she had been burned badly, near death when we found her in her safe-room." He blinked.

"She had a...Safe-room? And she let the others die like cattle to slaughter?" He bared his teeth in a terrifying snarl. "Then It is fitting she was nearly burned alive." I shifted uncomfortably. I agreed with him, but now was not the time to allow him to go into a tangent about who he had dubbed The Harlot.

"Yes. Well. Mother hopes she earns her redemption and peace in The Void, and I suggest you find it in your heart to feel the same. Her death was not a hinderance, though Nazir and The Un-Child mourned her. It didn't stop us from moving forward. We killed Titus Mede II." He didn't seem surprised.

"Of course. Glad that the contract was honored, despite the setbacks. You had the honor of that kill as well, I presume? Cicero wishes he could have been there to share in that glory."

"I did, yes." I nodded. "It was sobering. He was a good man, but eager to be a maurder. I'm not sure I did a service to the ongoing conflicts or not, but things in the political realm are surprisingly quiet."

"And what else has happened?"

"Not much else. We moved to Dawnstar and set up The Night Mother's altar there, though I'm sure you'll have much to do when it comes to properly staging it. I used the gold from the Emperor's contract to fund our rebuilding process, and that was completed before I was given the task of retrieving you. I also named Nazir Speaker - he seemed wanting of a promotion, and I couldn't think of anyone suited better."

"Of course, My Listener. It sounds to Cicero as though you have things under control. What are your plans for moving forward?"

"...Well, I haven't thought too hard about it. I thought we would eventually expand once the Dawnstar Sanctuary grew too crowded. That's all I really have."

"Hmm. Yes. Seems logical."

"...Truth is, I haven't been around too much. I confess I - I had to take some time after the things that transpired. I was not fit to be leader, but I did what I could." He stares blankly at me, clearly disappointed but not wanting to emote. "...I traveled for a bit on my own. I needed space."

"Hm."

"But now - Now I think I'm ready." I assured him. "But Mother says - Well." Now was not the time to let pride get in the way. "...I - I think so too, that I - I'm going to need your help. You are the only one who knows what a functioning Brotherhood looks like."His face betrays no emotion at this admittance, and I find myself a bit disappointed that he did not seem to realize the gravity of this confession.

"...Of course, My Listener. And Cicero will do his best to serve The Dark Brotherhood."

Silence reigns between us. I shift uncomfortably on the bed.

"...I...Can we talk about what happened now?"

He picks at his gloves nervously, eyes suddenly unable to meet mine.

"...Cicero isn't sure what good it will do. What's done is done."

He doesn't want to talk about it. That doesn't bode well.

I look at my hands. I'm not sure how to feel. I've lived life, up until this point, not really caring about how someone views my feelings or what I think of them. I've never doubted saying anything to anyone, ever. I was terrified that if I started now, I'd start to look at other interactions in my life and grow to resent them. And even more so, I've never regretted killing anyone before.

I take a deep breath and say what's on my mind:

"...How can you ever forgive me? ...I thought I was doing what was right. I thought that killing you would bring us peace, allow me to continue what you and I - what we started together."

"...I know. Cicero knows." He sighs heavily, "But that is all...In the past."

"Oh."

The Jester frowns, then, clearly upset but holding his tongue to what he really wants to say to me. I wish he'd just speak his mind. The longer we wait, the worse it will become. "Believe me, it isn't easy for me to say such a thing. Cicero must sort and shift through his feelings on the matter, but it will not make him any less useful to you. That is all he can say for now."

"Okay. Thank you for being honest." It was safe to say that I was disappointed, but I had expected this. How did we simply get over the trauma that was between us?

Despite our uncertainty of the future, I felt good about the new path set before us. I had a purpose once more set before me - and support to get things done.

There was a new era at hand for The Dark Brotherhood - all of Mundus, really - And I was at the helm.


	25. Rebuilding: Part One

Day three.

I glance nervously over to the red-head beside me, his expression unusually tense and closed. He's been that way since we got off the carriage just outside of Dawnstar. There is no mistaking that there exists tension between us, as well as a palpable nervousness in anticipation of presenting him to The Family.

It feels stifling, to be in my own skin - like I was not the only one occupying it. This was not comforting, for the most part. Feeling the phantom of his breath in sync with mine, my own fingers twitching unconsciously when he fidgets, the creep of paranoia that belonged to him settling into my chest. And there is something faint there, too, questions on the tip of his tongue and truths that threaten to burst from my skull.

It was cold in northern Skyrim; But I was feeling myself start to sweat. I found it difficult to focus on anything else. His heart was like a drum pounding in my ears. Steady, slow, but maddening. I had been able to ignore it for a while - hardly even noticed it too much in the first hour of his new life, but the closer he was the louder it became. Everything he did (and some that he did not do or could help!) became unbearable, and it made conversation difficult to nigh impossible. I had stopped trying hours ago.

He was thinking too hard, almost to the point where I was sure if I tried to read his thoughts I was sure to hear them. This prospect frightened me. Was this the catch? Some sort of punishment? A sort of retribution for overcoming nature and perverting the cycle of life? - Or was this simply a side-effect?

I had to distract myself from it.

I cough, awkwardly, breaking the tension sharply.

He speaks first.

"...My Listener, have you thought of what you will say?" He drawls, voice performative but his heart isn't in it. It dawns on me, suddenly, that perhaps he feels the effects of our new bond, as well. I want to ask him about it, but I'm afraid of him not feeling it and revealing to him this strange intimacy I suddenly possess.

"...When we arrive?" I am a bit slow to respond, pulled from my thoughts of consequence and necromancy. "...Well, no...They know everything already. I couldn't exactly keep it a secret," He seems to tense all over, limbs stiffening in their movements. He's already upset with me, and I've only said less than twenty words to him.

"Of course, of course - but you can't expect to just say _nothing_. Or worse, act like everything is the same as it were!" Ah, good, he's being condescending.

"And why not?"

His tone reverts back to its normal lilt quickly. "...This is a defining moment for you, My Listener. It's not about humble Cicero, you see; he's just eager to get back to work. No, no - this - this is about you taking your _rightful_ place - the place Astrid denied you."

"-Should I prepare a speech, then?" I ask, half-joking, wishing he wasn't angry with me and hoping that disengaging will help. It, of course, doesn't. This man is a predator, like me, and he knows belly-up doesn't always mean submission.

He doesn't smile.

"Perhaps." The Keeper answers. I don't have a response right away, irritated now. He's not being cooperative. I'm trying to keep the peace, but there is too much left unsaid between us. Will we be effective together like this, or will we snap at each other for the rest of our days?

I worry my fingers at the hem of my sleeve. "...And are you to counsel me now, Keeper? Is that our arrangement? Are we to be shackled by this and only this? Tell me now, so I may adjust my behavior accordingly."

"I serve only Sithis - and by extension The Night Mother - My Listener, _as do you_." He cuts in, voice sharp. We make eye-contact and he suddenly loses his nerve. His mouth flattens into a straight line. The lines of his body deflate, shoulders drooping in defeat, and he sighs. "...However...Cicero is your underling, Mistress, and you may use him as you wish. If you wish for council, Cicero will give that to you. My purpose is knowledge, isn't it?"

"I detest that sort of language. It robs you of choice and will."

"My will is that of Sithis's command, My Listener."

"Have you none of your own?" I say, voice a bit more harsh than I wanted to express. He grits his teeth, hands clenched in fists at his sides.

"-Blasphemy, _surely_ , to consider - but Cicero will forgive The Listener for her transgression; I'll even answer your question! _No._ I have no needs or wants outside of The Dark Brotherhood."

Now we're both uncomfortable.

"...I would not ask you for anything more. Are you trying to _insinuate_ something, Keeper?" I feel my teeth clench together, steeling myself against whatever he might say and my own inevitable heatwave of rage in response to it.

"I would never accuse you of anything, My Listener." He replies coolly.

"What is this really about?" I snap back, He seems startled by this and retreats slightly. He picks at his gloves nervously, suddenly preoccupied.

"...Cicero and The Listener have unresolved issues between them, but I want to make it clear that they are second to our new roles in relation to each other." I feel the blood drain from my face, and the intensity of my rage depletes a bit. I suspected this was the root cause, but I didn't think he'd go so far as to say something like that _out loud_ and directly to my face. I thought perhaps we'd dance around it a bit. I realize I was a bit foolish to believe that Cicero would be merciful.

"I will not sacrifice the integrity of The Dark Brotherhood for such fancies, and to suggest I would is, frankly, quite _disrespectful_." It seems it's his turn to grit his teeth, again.

"...Apologies, Listener." He manages to wheeze out, eyes seeking mine. "...It was not Cicero's intention to be _disrespectful_." I wave dismissively at him, drawing even more ire from him purposefully, telling myself his anger is his currency of penance, and that I'm not being petty for pettiness' sake.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore, Keeper. You're absolutely right that we have more pressing issues at hand. I, for one, am not eager to open old wounds."

"Wounds." He repeats, though it's less of a question and more of a statement. Like he's never considered how I feel about the whole situation. I draw away from him, putting space between us - as much as I can, still feeling him on that horrible spiritual level. The soft thrum of his heart echoes in my ears, pushing me towards a precipice. The cold-sweat still hasn't alleviated.

" _Wounds_ ," I say, distracted, "Yes. I consider this a second-chance to rebuild The Dark Brotherhood, and that's it. I will say nothing more on the matter."

"Fine." He replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead of us. "As you wish, Listener." He sounded a bit upset. Did he think I would protest? That I would beg to talk about my now-regrettable confessions?

"You sound upset. Make up your mind about what you want, Keeper!" I feel sick, the steady beat picking up and moving me to a slight panic, "Are we to speak of these things, or not? If we are, I'd rather we get them hammered out before we return to The Sanctuary."

"No." He says, as if it's an answer, but it's not. The beat is more than a background annoyance, now - loud and faster than normal. I feel horror creeping into my throat. It makes me want to scream.

"Which is it?" I manage to cough out.

"-Why doesn't the Listener focus on what she will say to the others when we get home, hm? That is my suggestion. That is my council."

"Fine." I shoot back automatically. Word-silence reigns uncomfortably between us, the bitter cold wind slashing at my rage-heated face as we make our way towards the sanctuary. I pull my cloak tighter around myself, cursing the night's chill and the abysmal company I have to keep. I can barely think. It feels like I'm burning up from the inside out. My hands shake, and it takes all my effort to focus on anything other than this horrid connection The Keeper and I share.

I focus on anger, as it seems to be easy.

I think things during this time, ugly, dark things that I know I don't really mean. I want to say them aloud, say them for the sole purpose of hurting him. But I don't, and we make it to the sanctuary without any further incident.

* * *

When we arrive I am shocked to see that, upon hearing The Black Door opening, the Family has congregated together in the main central room of The Sanctuary, awaiting our arrival. The jester's eyes meet mine for a moment, smugness clear in the brief flash of an expression his face betrays. I stand at the top of the stairs, Cicero in my shadow, and look upon them.

"...Uh, hello." I wave, suddenly overcome with nervousness. I feel the cool chill of clamminess start to form on my brow as I step forward to address the upturned faces in the room. "..." I glance over my shoulder at Cicero, who simply stares back expectantly. There was no comfort there, no nod or upturned corners of the mouth to soothe me - but despite this, his solid presence beside me helped.

I could feel the cadence of his breath echoing mine, the twitch of his manic fingers hidden by velvet gloves, the ever ebbing and flowing paranoia that creeped in his chest and made its new home in mine. It was suddenly grounding rather than panic-inducing, less of an annoyance or distraction it became a temporary baseline I could attach myself to, like a drum. Just for now. Later, I'd have to examine how to do it all the time or I was bound to go mad eventually.

I cleared my throat and spoke to them, centering myself enough to put a slightly performative voice on. I hadn't thought much of what I would say, but I knew it had to be a propaganda-piece at the core of it, as well as instilling confidence in my leadership skills. I prayed to Sithis that I'd be effective in both avenues.

"...Brothers and Sisters in Sithis: Today I present to you a physical manifestation of the power of our faith in The Dread Lord/" I gesture to the man beside me. "...Now, normally _reversing_ death isn't our usual fare - " Here there are some stifled, genuine laughs from my audience, "-But through His will a formerly deceased brother has come back to us from The Void itself to provide council on our rebuilding process. I was taken to task, as was my duty, and I have returned successful. This is Cicero, The Keeper of our Lady, The Night Mother. He is to welcomed back into The Family with open arms - and he is to be treated with the respect his position deserves."

Nazir makes a face but says nothing as the jester bows and formally introduces himself to the new faces in the room. The initiates seem rattled, perhaps a bit curious, but nevertheless star-struck and hopeful. A dead-man they had heard about was _here,_ talking to them -

"-As I'm sure you all know by now," I continue, "In the past we have had leaders who destroyed the sanctity of our calling by remaining self-serving, malicious, and dishonest. As your Listener, chosen by The Night Mother herself to hear her words and commit myself to the will of Sithis: I pledge to lead The Dark Brotherhood into an era of internal transparency and rejuvenate our legacy as the most fearsome assassins in all of Nirn. With these pillars in place, we may begin to rebuild The Black Hand and start anew from the ground up." It seems my little speech was successful, because there is a sudden burst of excitement in the room. Before it got too out of hand I said: "-Uh...That's all. Kill well and often." I make an awkward little dismissing gesture and begin to make my way down the steps.

Nazir immediately ushers me over, throwing his arm over my shoulders. "Quite a rousing speech there, My Listener." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "...It wasn't your style."

I glance at Cicero meaningfully, knowing Nazir will follow my eyes. "It wasn't _my_ idea, but I saw the merit in it." We move to a more private corner of the room.

"Of course. Has it already begun?" He mutters, distaste clear in his voice. His gaze slid to were mine was, directed at the red-head - who was occupied with initiates asking him questions about being dead, I'd guess. "Not to start this whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing we have on a sour note, but I'd be careful if I were you. The jester wanted to be Listener, and he's made moves against a leader before."

"The Night Mother wouldn't steer us into a poor direction.," I say, trying to placate him, though I know it's all for nothing; "-But I appreciate the paranoia; You're absolutely right. I won't let my guard down - However: I don't think Cicero would make a move against me. We all want the same thing - what's best for The Brotherhood. And unlike the previous, I'm not just a self-appointed leader. That helps." Nazir sighs at this.

"Yes. I know your feelings about Astrid - and I'm eternally grateful that you've been respectful despite that, but you must know that we did what we thought was best. What happened with her was human error and desperation. Pathetic, but deserving of pity."

"Of course, Speaker. I would not vilify her for _that_ , but yes - I have made it very clear in the past how I felt about her... _Handling_ of leadership. I know you and Babette still mourn her loss, however, and I understand that it isn't my place to have much of an opinion. I don't know what it was like before I arrived."

"Right. Likewise, I have made it clear how I feel about merry-men, jugglers, bards, and all their ilk alike. The Keeper is no exception to this. He struck against us, and it will take time for me to accept him with open arms. I understand, however, that this is the will of The Night Mother, and I respect that. I just hope you don't expect us to become a big happy family right away; if ever."

I nod in understanding. "I appreciate the honesty. Going into this, I knew it would be wrong of me to ask you or Babette to simply forgive the sins of the past. I can't even ask that of myself. I don't expect you to go out of your way to be kind to him, or even speak to him. All I ask is that you remain professional. If he crosses a line, you are free to retaliate. But we need to work together to rebuild, and _that_ is what I expect from you."

"Of course, My Listener. For The Brotherhood."

"Thank you, Nazir."I smile at him and he seems to deflate with relief a little. "How are things faring with the initiates?" He takes a moment to switch gears, his voice now easily sliding into his normal detached cadence.

"A few of the younger ones are restless; contracts dwindled while you were absent, despite your punctual letters with fresh targets. I for one will be glad when things return to normal."

"I have a few contacts in mind to bring into the fold and help train the lesser-skilled. I'll give you the list later, after I've settled. We can discuss more business later."

"Of course. You must be tired - traveling with...Him." He glances at the red-head again, distaste clear in his expression. I laugh at this.

"A bit, yes. Not that he generally gets on my nerves, but there is a bit of tension between us. I _did_ kill the man, you know."

"A _non-permanent_ fate, unfortunately." Nazir muttered to himself. "Right, well. Welcome home, Listener." He clapped me gently on the shoulder and gave me a genuine smile. "Good luck."

I look upon the room, from the curious but hesitant faces from the initiates to the jester, and all in-between. I sigh, turning to Nazir with a mumbled:

"...We're going to need it..."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the bit of delay; Something exciting happened to me: I was invited to write for a Skyrim mod! The creator liked this story so much, he's going to be creating something just for this work, as well. If you want to check either out, PM me for the links - I can also reply to reviews. ;)**

 **Feedback is very much appreciated!**


	26. Rebuilding: Part Two

It is intolerable.

Truly.

I have tried and failed to make this newfound closeness into something positive, but drawing attention to it only makes it worse. At best it is a steady thrum in the back of my mind, akin to the annoying buzz of a mosquito or fly close to my ear - and at worst it is a distraction, like a loud musical cacophony in a too-small-room. I feel it throb in my chest, then; Deep and pressing harshly against sore ribs.

I dared not speak about it for the two weeks we've been home, but it has made me visibly agitated on more than one occasion, and this alone made it difficult to suffer in silence. It is a mocking sort of thing, like a purposeful tease; A phantom of laughter from somewhere in the void. It moves me to rage sometimes, teetering into madness. I feel the tides of it ebb and flow, wax and wane. Makes me nauseous.

It was during one of these outbursts that I finally addressed it.

* * *

We were alone - awake even past the early morning hour of our resident insomniacs and Un-Child, and I was exhausted but was unable to sleep due to my anxiousness. I had already begun to feel the overwhelming panic that dug talons into my lungs, and like everything else that negatively affected me I responded with anger.

I slapped my book onto the table I was sitting at, irritated at myself for allowing such a small, constant thing to bother me. The horror overcame my fear of ruining my pride and I just ended up spitting it out:

"-Tell me, Keeper, do you hear it too!? Can you feel that?"

The jester (previously distracted by his own day-dreaming and humming) suddenly looked at me. He seemed to not understand me at first, as he just silently stared into my face for a long while. He finally opened his mouth to speak after what seemed like many long and uncomfortable moments.

"...Hm?" He blinked innocently, though I could tell it was simply performative. "Hear...What? Feel...What, exactly?" I wasn't in the mood to play posturing games with him.

" _It._ " I urge, unable to express exactly what it is that I am trying to communicate. He looks like he wants to laugh at me, and I don't blame him. It hurts my pride like I thought it would, and I'm half-tempted to drop the subject altogether and try suffering in silence once more.

"...Cicero hears and feels many things, My Listener - Some of which, I'd wager, is rooted in reality. Please be more specific."

He was mocking me. I was sure of it. I wanted to curse at him, insult him - but it was more important to play along and tell him what I meant instead of getting more upset. I opened and closed my mouth unattractively, standing from my chair. I stammer a few times, words not forming properly in my embarrassment and half-mad distracted state.

"-The - the - everything." I tell him, gesturing wildly - though that's not nearly sufficient. It's...It's Blood rushing in the veins, hearts beating in tandem, phantom breaths that swirl like snakes around my throat, garbled half-thoughts that didn't quite make real words in my head -

His expression changes, going a bit more serious. I think it began to dawn on him how much this was actually affecting me. He stands from his cross-legged spot on the cold stone floor, drawing himself up to his full height. It is a dull reminder that he often draws his chest inward and that it is merely an illusion that he is a short man...Though, for a Colovian he was considered small -

I watch as he makes his way towards me, and he draws so near that I have to look slightly up at him.

"...Yes. I do. I know what you're talking about." I'm relieved, and I don't have enough pretense to pretend that I'm not.

"You do? Even the -?"

"Yes, probably. Why?"

"-It doesn't affect you?" I shrink away from him slightly, feeling uncomfortable that I have to look up into his face while having this conversation. He is unphased, putting hand to chin in an exaggerated thoughtful look.

"No. Not really. Cicero is used to hearing and feeling strange things in his head; Though I will say it did take a few days to get used to."

"...Right. Okay." We never talk about his madness, never outright at least. I'm not sure what to say. There is a beat of silence. The jester stares into my face and I shift uncomfortably again.

"...Are you alright, My Listener?" He asks, and I'm more than a little relieved that he knew to ask me rather than wait for me to ask him for help. There's a part of me that wants to lie and say 'Oh, no. Just wondering,' but I think it's too late for that.

I let out a deep breath. I didn't know I'd been holding it."...No. I confess it affects me more than I am able to handle." I tell him. I add, embarrassed: "Perhaps, with my outburst, this is...Obvious, now."

"Hm." His features smooth into something akin to calm as he thinks about what he wants to say to me. "...What is it that The Listener wants? How can Cicero help?"

"...I don't know." I say. "...I want it to be quiet. I want it to stop."

There's a moment where I catch his face crumpling into one of grief, then he says: "My Listener, if Cicero knew how to stop it entirely, he - I...I..." He trails off suddenly, and there seems to be something heavy in that pregnant pause.

More silence. Then:

He glances down at his hands, as if remembering they exist, then raises both to chest level, palms facing out towards me.

"...May I?"

"What?" I glance back and forth between his velvet-clad hands to his face.

He shifts slightly, clearly flustered all of a sudden. "...Touch you."

"-No." I spit out automatically, and his expression betrays a flash of disappointment and hurt that is quickly remedied with his normal passive amusement. "-No, no, I -" I frown. "...I mean, yes. It's - It's...Uh, it's...Fine. _If it will help_ \- though I...I just don't see how it will."

"It might help. Might not." He shrugs. This doesn't appease me much.

"...Okay...?" I answer dubiously. He stares expectantly at me. "...Well? I said _okay_."

"...Just making sure." He mumbles, his gaze suddenly anywhere but on me.

I draw myself up a bit, trying to prepare myself for something so...Innocuous, yes, but still something I was unused to.

He hesitates, which makes the situation all the more excruciating and awkward. I flinch more than I care to admit when I suddenly feel the weight of his palms against my shoulders. He keeps them there for a moment, as if any movement would cause me to lash out against him like a wild animal - then they slide closer to my neck.

I do not like the imagery that immediately springs to mind -

 _\- Bosmer, bare-feet on the cobbled-stone road, the guards are watching us from their station at the gate; We hardly notice. I throw my arms around him and he catches my torso in his long-fingered hands and pulls me to meet him the rest of the way; We nearly miss each-other's mouths in our awkward reverie - And its over. My feet are suddenly on the ground again, and his hands find their home on my shoulders, as if he could press me there into the road and I'd stay rooted like a statue, but it wasn't **me** who wanted to leave_ -

I glance up at the jester, eyes drawn to the freckles splattered across his cheekbones.

This was not that, not even the same _sort_ of thing, and yet it was a strange sort of comfort that I did not want to let go of. It made me feel an emptiness in my chest, just like that vivid memory, and I tried to understand what that really meant. I didn't have time to do that right now, though.

The corner of the jester's mouth twitches, though in which direction I could not catch. This close to each other, I can smell the bitter-sweet smell of embalming oils sticking to his clothes. I frown more deeply as I start to feel irritation settle uninvited into my chest.

I don't mean to be so angry all the time, but there seems to be no alternative. Sometimes it doesn't even feel like it belongs to me.

It dawned on me that perhaps...It didn't. Surely most of the time, yes - but now?

"...Do you feel that, as well?" His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. Is he talking about the sudden anger I feel? I wondered dully if he could piece together the thoughts I just had about my past dalliances and I blushed and burned a bit to think that he could, maybe. He wouldn't know what it meant, might even confuse it for something else -

Ah, but I'm distracted, and he's waiting for a response to his question.

"...Your...Hands?" I try, hoping he doesn't mean anything else, because I feel nothing else besides discomfort and anger. I feel stupid as I say this to him, because it's too obvious of an answer and as soon as it leaves my mouth I know it's not what he's looking for. I pray he doesn't laugh at me, though for a man who constantly giggles under his breath this is a silly thing to wish against. To my shock, he does not - but the corner of his mouth twitches again, this time almost into a smirk.

"No. Try again."

It's almost like a game. I stay still and quiet. Something pushes into my thoughts, like a slow sword to the gut, and I can't quite find the words to express what it all means.

 _'Not me, but him.'_ That's what I'm getting, but that's only the start of it. I'm supposed to find something; Like a treasure hunt, sort of - But what was it? Where was I supposed to start?

His fingers flex, thumbs moving slightly towards my throat. I can feel the tendons in his hands beneath the fabric of his gloves. I feel the surprising ache of being touch-starved in my chest, and that emptiness feels wide and batters against my rib-cage. Even still, I can feel the burn of his warmth - I can feel him alive, breathing steady and shallow.

There's a strange disconnect there, suddenly, and my mind tries to justify this. When I think of The Keeper, I never think of warmth. I only think of cold things, like The Void, like Mother - like Death. I think of Dawnstar and snow and thin ice on lakes.

No. No, warmth was - Warmth had always been used to describe Marcurio in my mind, and I never wanted to think of that wretched wizard ever again.

And still, that uninvited anger grows: impatient and chaotic.

I trace the outline of his knuckles in my mind's eye, and suddenly the 'something' that pushed into my thoughts makes sense.

"...You..Want to _choke_ me...?" I mumble, not surprised. "That's...Not very nice of you, Keeper. Stay focused." My words feel empty. He says nothing, just shifts his weight into me. I don't expect him to justify his thoughts, and he doesn't. For all I know, it could just be a compulsion, nothing more than a muscle memory that has turned into an automatic desire to just press and -

\- and as soon as I think that, I know it to be true. It's a compulsion. I open my eyes briefly to look at him, and his expression is serious.

He really means it.

I'm not sure what he's trying to tell me by revealing this latent violence he has for me, but I do not address it and he doesn't say anything more about it. It simply became fact. I'm not even sure that was the point he was trying to make.

And yet the weight of the knowledge of him wanting to hurt me by compulsion is not lost to me - He wants to hurt me, and yet he does not. We both know why, but I scold myself and remind that little shard still digging stubbornly in my heart that it's because of rules and loyalty and neccessity - nothing more. I don't want to think about anything more than that.

"Oh?" He mutters.

My mouth forms the words: _You wouldn't_ , or even _You can't_ \- but they don't materialize all the way. I don't know that for certain, and at this point nothing would surprise me.

This wasn't the point. What was is that I could understand his intent, even through his subconscious. That was very frightening. It was almost like mind-reading, but...Not.

"...This could be useful." Is what he _s_ ays to me, as if finishing my thought. I feel a bit nauseous with the weight of my epiphanies. I can faintly hear laughter in the back of my mind, and it's making me uncomfortable. Is this what plays in his head on repeat...?

"This doesn't help." I tell him. He shifts again, hands on my throat, thumbs starting to lightly press.

"No, no - We know how part of it _works_ , now." The jester says. That was true. "Right?"

"Right. Through...Focus?"

"Exactly." His eyes are drawn to his hands, fixed on where they are holding onto my throat.

"I need it to be _quieter_ , Keeper." His thumbs are pressing with more earnest, fingers becoming a cage. I say nothing, not wanting to draw attention to it because I'm certain he doesn't realize.

Something else now, inside. A slow and languid thought, _'It would be quiet if you were dead.'_ I do not jerk backwards at this revelation. I know better than to thrash against the sharp teeth of a predator. Not that I feared death, or this man, it was just...It'd get ugly. This time there was no werewolf-wound splitting his side, and this time I was not honor-bound to hurt him. Even when that had existed, I still could barely bring myself to do it.

Wretched. Everything felt absolutely wretched, and yet the cage of his fingers was still somehow comforting, in a morbid sort of way. The half-promise of violence without the true intention.

His amber eyes are dull, half-lidded as his smirk threatens to become a smile. His mind is starting to go someplace else, yet his mouth keeps moving.

"...Right." I don't know if he means to agree with the phrase I'd thought or to continue the conversation. I'm not left wondering, however, because soon after he adds: "Now that we know how it works, we can try to counter-balance. It's like...Holding a knife, but with the blade as the handle. Flip it."

I'm not sure how I understand what he means, but I do. He's trying to say it's...

It takes a moment to process, but I can vaguely recognize the merit in his words.

This is...Something that could hurt me if I don't wield it correctly, but I have to have the knowledge to understand what is the handle and what is the blade first.

Then: "...Do you trust me, My Listener?" He does not look me in the eyes, still. I don't know where exactly he is staring. I'm afraid to ask, but it seems to be a mix of the middle of my forehead and my mouth. I want to ask him why he's asking me this, _of all things_ \- but if there's anything I know about Cicero is that he's often cryptic. Of course, he means to speak about the violence without addressing it, but I suddenly find myself wanting to leave it alone for now.

"As far as I can throw you, Keeper." I say, no emotion in my voice. He's starting to press a bit harder, and my vision is getting a bit blurry at the edges.

"Silly. Ula can't even pick Cicero up!" He laughs quietly, saying this almost as if he's talking to himself. Am I real to him, in this moment?

"I know." I reply. "That's the point." He smiles at that.

"That's okay." For some reason, this makes me feel relieved. He understands, and it doesn't hurt him.

 _(...It doesn't hurt him like it would have hurt Marc. It doesn't hurt him like it hurt everybody else.)_

I look up into his face.

The jester nods, as agreeing with his own words. _It's okay._

I think I hear him mutter: ' _Yes, yes it's fine. Of course, of **course**_.' Just when his hands begin to press with purpose does he finally let them fall to his sides. He seems a bit beside himself still, so I ask, with a slightly strained voice:

"...So what do we do?" I try not to cough but I must. The sound slightly rouses him to the present moment. He shakes himself free, blinking once - then twice, and says:

"What do you think you should do?" Ah. No apologies then. He doesn't seem sheepish or horrified, but I wouldn't expect him to be. Perhaps another time.

"...I...Dunno." I tell him, feeling a bit light-headed. I run my own fingers across my throat, still feeling the tingle and the tightness. His gaze follows this gesture, distracted by it momentarily, and then he's back to looking me in the face. I'm always a bit uncomfortable when I have his full attention.

"Cicero finds it helpful to focus on other things." He offers.

"...You make it sound as if I'm always thinking of you." I laugh, and I hope it doesn't sound too sharp. Void-forbid the man thinks I am some horrible abomination; A caricature of some kind: A love-sick girl rather than the hollow, angry woman I know I am. And still, to even joke about it in my own head makes me nauseous and horrified. What if he does think of me that way? What if he pities me? And furthermore, I detest the hypothetical. What hubris does he secretly possess if he thinks of me in such a way? I find myself getting worked up over something that may not even exist.

I regret death-bed confessions and make a mental note to never say anything I wouldn't be comfortable dealing with in the after-life.

The jester does not address my pseudo-gaff. He moves a bit out of my personal space, however, and I can breathe a bit easier. "...Hmm. You could always make the thing that bothers you into a part of the natural rhythm of things. Like a song in the back of your mind. An image to think and forget, moving in tandem with the beat."

"...How do I do that?" A bony shoulder rises and falls in response to my question.

"Uh-mmm...Count? Here, like this-" He grabs my hand and I resist the urge to pull away again. He places my palm against his chest and I squirm a little with discomfort.

"...I...Don't like this." I admit, and this makes him sigh heavily through his nose. "The...Touching."

"I know. Just...Bear with me, Ula." He pleads, "Just - _count_ , okay?"

"Count what?" I ask distractedly, hating the weight of his palm pressing mine against him. It feels like I'm trapped. I especially don't like feeling his voice through his chest. Makes my fingers tingle with the vibrations.

"Heartbeats, Ula, isn't that obvious? - Focus." The jester mumbles, half-scolding. I find it especially humiliating, getting yelled at to focus by a man who himself has trouble focusing long enough to eat a full meal or brush his own hair.

When he says this to me, however, I can almost hear his natural voice beneath the performative one and it makes me anxious to leave altogether, abandoning whatever this was suppose to accomplish. To make this all go by quicker, I do as he asks.

Heartbeats. Counting heartbeats. What a funny thing. This man was dead less than three weeks ago, and now he's asking me to count his heartbeats.

It took me a few moments longer than I care to admit to be able to focus on just that one thing. The hum was like a bunch of information being whispered into my ear at once, all with conflicting voices at different pitches. Singling out the one thing I wanted to find and hear was difficult, but I finally did it.

 _One...Two...Three. One. Two. Three. One Two Three OneTwoThree -_

I tap out the rhythm with my foot and shut my eyes.

I relax a little, and I notice his heart beats just a little bit faster in response, but I ignore it. We sit in silence for a good few minutes - which sounds like a short time, but it didn't feel like it.

How...Long was I supposed to do this?

"...Cicero...?" I try, and despite my impatience I actually found myself hating to break our verbal silence. There was, of course, still the low hum of everything else in the background, but it had almost become peaceful. I suppose that had been the point.

"...How goes it?" He asks.

"...Works a bit, just like this." I admit, still tapping my foot in time. "What now?"

"Make it something else."

"Like what?"

"A song. A dance. A _thing_ \- anything. Imagine something in your head."

I open my eyes to look at him, trying to gauge if he was simply messing with me. A long-form joke of some kind. He seems sincere, however, so I try my best to do as he asks - though it's so very hard to do when we're close like this. Everything gets louder, and louder still now that I'm paying attention again.

"...Okay." I frown. I'm unsure of what would work best.

I lean forward a bit and close my eyes again, forehead almost touching his collarbone - and I think dully to myself that surely my unruly hair was ticking him, but if it was he didn't even flinch.

Focus.

Numbers gave way to sound, a thrum at first, a drum next, then something that was actually pleasing: A dull, soft strum like that of a low, un-tuned lute with a loose string. It was a strange sort of sound to fixate on, but then the imagery was there:

Thread. Plucked with a finger, trying to make a song but barely hitting a base-line. I could handle that.

It was quieter.

It was red, I imagined, a spool coiled in my chest that stretched from him to me. If I ever needed to find him, I could just simply reach out and tug on the string -

"Ula." I grow a bit irritated to have my epiphany interrupted.

"Hm?"

"Do you have something in your head, now?"

"Yes." I answer quickly.

"...Does it...Help?" He releases my wrist, and I withdraw my hand. My arm feels a bit sore from keeping the position for a long time, and my fingers tingle a bit. I wiggle them a little, looking at my hand to avoid looking into his face.

"Yes, I think so."

"Good." He seems relieved, and I appreciate it, but I feel the urge to flee rising. It's not that I'm panicked - I'm actually quite calm for once, but it's a compulsion to put distance and time between this event and everything else. Whatever just happened, I needed time to dissect it and find meaning in it. I couldn't do that until it was done and I was away.

"...Thank you." I say, and I mean it. I pull away from him further, putting space between us that I desperately need. He looks at me curiously as I leave. I fumble to explain myself, breathless as I say: "...I...I'm tired now, I think, so I - I should go to bed. "

He seems almost...Disappointed. "...Okay. Goodnight, My Listener."

"Night."

* * *

To my surprise, the technique worked. The next evening, when I awoke, I was in better spirits. No waking up in the middle of my slumber in a cold sweat - no loud drumming, no aching paranoia sitting heavily in my chest.

I was sure it would take time to perfect the technique and this was simply some sort of temporary relief, but I was grateful for whatever peace I could have. It was never quite silent, but it was manageable.

That's what mattered.


	27. Riften

I lean in the doorway of The Keeper's quarters, already gnawing on my lip in anticipation of how this next conversation will go.

"...Are you busy?"

The jester, mid-handstand, twists his body in such a way as to look me in the face. "Cicero? Busy? No - of course not! Never for _you,_ My Listener." He tumbles, tucks and rolls and springs upright in front of me. I frown a little at the display, noting that the cap on his head hardly looks disturbed at all.

"...What was all that, then?" I ask.

His amused expression falters for a moment, then he glances away . "Mmm...Cicero was just...Thinking." He twitches nervously a bit, anxious fingers worrying at his velvet gloves.

"You? _Thinking_? Oh dear." I interject, but my voice sounds a measure too faked. I'm trying to keep the mood light between us. It seems, lately, that we've been coping with our differences...But we're always on edge; Like this measure of uneasy peace will shatter at any moment.

He does smile, though it doesn't _quite_ reach his eyes. It's performative and automatic, it seems, and I'm a bit reluctant to really put thought into what that means. "I was thinking about _perspectives_. Thus, I had to be upside-down, you see!" He explains.

"Ah, yes of course." I nod sagely.

I stare at him expectantly, but he makes no move to continue.

Exasperated, I urge: "...Well, I suppose that makes sense. Go on." The smile grows a bit in measure.

"...Isn't it funny how something can look one way, then look completely different with just a small shift of the eyes? Cicero imagined a world where we all walked on our hands instead of our feet..."

I think it wise to entertain his train of thought in an attempt to appear amicable, so I say: "...Oh?" And in response he shrugs a little; though it's mostly a roll of his shoulder, like he's practiced this before but is readying himself to actually say it aloud.

"...Do you ever think perhaps a change in perspective is needed sometimes, My Listener? Upside-down and right-side up - but you see: Which-way-is-which is based entirely on what one thinks!" He taps his temple, and it makes the bells on his cap jingle faintly. "For instance: If we walked on our hands all the time, would _feet-walking_ be considered silly?"

I cross my arms and think on this for a moment. It's a legitimate philosophical question, but I wonder where he's trying to lead me. "...Hm. I can't say that I know for certain. _Perhaps_...Since the contrary is true. Though, that doesn't always mean it's an absolute given."

"I haven't come up with an answer yet, myself. Wasn't really looking for one, but Ula asked what I was doing, so... Cicero was just pondering the _meaning_ of those sorts of things."

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. "...Cryptic." I step closer to him and he flinches slightly when I unfold my arms. There's something more to be said, clearly. "...What do you mean by that?"

"- _Crypt_ -ic. Ha!" He deflects, laughing in that nervous sort of tick that makes it sound more like a titter: "What a _wonderful_ word, Listener." His eyes are anywhere but on me, and it makes me even more suspicious.

I don't let him change the subject.

"Yes, it is -" I say, "But what are you getting at?" His mouth twitches down at one corner, clearly un-amused with me all of a sudden. I'm not sure _exactly_ what it is I've said to draw his ire, but this sort of thing - me pressing him on something that he wishes to keep close to the chest and him becoming irritated- seems to happen more frequently.

"...Must all thought have purpose?" He answers, finally, tone a bit less manic than usual. "Considering Cicero _is_ the Fool of Hearts, after all?"

"To you, it does." Now his eyes meet mine. It feels like a challenge, but I try to keep that feeling from shifting my expression.

"Curious." His head tilts in an inquisitive manner, though it's hardly an innocent gesture. "...Is that truly how Ula sees... _Silly_ Cicero? Even after all this time?" There is something sinister in his voice, barely there - lining his tone in a sickly sweet sort of venom.

I look at him and decide that it's best not to answer at all.

Truth be told, I never bought into the central idea he seemed to labor over; being a fool. He was always a strangely intelligent and wise man...And I never thought his mental eccentricities caused any short-comings - in fact, I regarded it as a creative advantage. I figured whichever the case I'd argue, he'd be likely offended or annoyed that I could read him so easily. There was a specific purpose to it all, I was reasonably certain - and I wasn't sure if I wanted to call his bluff just yet.

Instead, I change gears and begin searching for something in his room with such purpose that he all but drops the subject altogether. I'm in the middle of up-turning an empty basket when he finally asks: "...What are is The Listener looking for?"

"Your pack," I tell him, "I just remembered, before I became side-tracked, I came in here to tell you we're leaving for a bit. You need to pack for the trip - and you can't pack without your...Pack, get it?" I smile, trying to ease the tension in the room. He doesn't emote at first, probably fighting confusion and frustration all at once, and then:

His face is the picture of surprise. "- _Leaving?_ Already? We've only been home for a few months - "

"Have you attended to The Night Mother recently?"

"Well, yes, but - "

"Then _yes_ , we're leaving. _Tonight_ , preferably." I keep my hands busy, idly looking in random drawers here and there. I'm unsurprised to find most of his room is empty and devoid of any personal belongings. He wears the same outfit constantly. "I have a job out in Riften and Nazir made it very clear he does not fancy the idea of you being here alone." His expression suddenly goes a bit grim, and I make it a point to stop what I'm doing briefly to look up at him and in the eyes. "...Please. _Don't_ make a scene about it. He's just being cautious and a healthy amount of self-critical. You two don't get along well, and I can't say that I find that at all comforting."

"...Well, if he would just-"

Ah, the moment I'd been dreading was here.

I interrupt before he can argue with me, hands on my hips. "-So! Where _is_ that _pack_ , hm? I can't seem to find it anywhere!" He closes his mouth with an audible snap and seems visibly agitated now. With clenched hands and a stilted posture, he moves to his bed and produces the pack from underneath it. I know that he gets very upset when I treat him a bit like a child, and if I were him, I would too - but it was surprisingly effective to rapidly switch focus when we communicated. Even if that meant a bit of a huff and stubbornness.

"Here," He practically throws it upon the disheveled blankets. "Cicero is at your service, Oh Great and Powerful Listener." He mocked, throwing himself into a sloppy half-bow. "As _always_ , I am at mercy of your command. Cicero will pack for this trip, if you so wish for The Fool of Hearts to accompany you, _Mistress_."

I watch him as he straightens, face tinted pink along his cheeks with quiet fury, a pout displayed on his features. I blink, trying not to betray my thoughts with a changed expression. I don't dare tell him that I actually _like_ the title 'Mistress' better than Listener, because it's a lot less weighted and surely we'd get into a fight about my very important duties and what my title represents - and also because he'll keep using it if he _thinks_ it bothers me.

"...Good." I tell him, and move to retreat from his anger and leave him to his task, but then he starts anew and I hold my breath against an impending argument:

"Ah, Riften, you said? ...Cicero _likes_...Riften..." I'm surprised that _this_ is what he says instead of going into a rant against Nazir. The tone he used was dejected, much like a defeated sigh. A strange addition to something he already acquiesced to. I turn to him to watch him more closely, trying to ascribe meaning to his strange behavior.

"...I know." I answer, the words coming out a bit unsure and slow. "...That's why I figured you wouldn't be too upset about this." I tell him, half-expecting more from him. He says nothing, just stares vacantly at the pack in his hands for a long moment. Clearly, he wants to say something, but doesn't. "...Something on your mind, Keeper?" He immediately snaps out of it, a wide smile plastering his face as he jolts to attention.

"-Who, me? Haha; No, no..." The grim look passes over his features again. "No, nothing." He mutters darkly.

I sense something is disturbing him but make no move to coax it out of him. If he wanted to talk about it, he would, right?

I look at him a bit longer, giving him another chance to reconsider. When he breaks eye-contact again, I drop it.

"...If you say so." I shift my weight to one foot, then the other, lingering for a bit longer. When he makes no move to speak again or look at me, I decide to leave him be. "...I have to pack, too. Meet me by The Black Door when you're finished."

"Yes, My Listener." He answers, quietly.

* * *

"You're awfully grim today." I say, bumping into The Keeper's shoulder. He'd been acting strangely since we left, and I'd reach my limit for tolerance. The whole trip he'd been melancholy and a bit difficult, so I thought I'd approach it with a friendly, caring veneer.

To my surprise, without missing a beat, he answers: "Cicero has a lot on his mind."

"...Oh." It takes me a moment to recover. "...Care to share?"

"No." He replies, just as quickly as his first. I almost think he's angry, but I can't tell just yet. It's hard to read his emotions sometimes, even if they are seated heavy in my own chest.

I admit to feeling a bit crestfallen about his reluctance to talk about whatever's bothering him, but I don't want to push him directly on it. He tends to get frustrated when he can't articulate himself, and I have a feeling this whole cycle of behavior is a combination of not knowing how to say what he's feeling and a reluctance to reveal some sort of weakness to me.

"...You've been a lot more introspective lately, that's all." I say, trying to circumvent outright asking.

" _Lately,_ you say, but that's not what you _mean_." He accuses, voice sliding easily into an irritated hiss - "You mean since I was _revived_. Coming back from the grave will do that to a person, I think. Aren't I allowed some peace? It Forces new perspectives and all that. We've discussed this part already, and I grow weary of it. -Things that were once trivial become even more so, things that were important get...Skewed." He pauses here, gnawing at his bottom lip as a manic laughs escapes through clenched teeth. At this point it's more of a nervous tick than a reaction, and it seems to soothe his sudden fast-paced rant. "...It's just taking Cicero a while to re-categorize some things."

I'm relieved he's finally talking, so I think to nudge him a bit on the subject."...Like?" To my disappointment, he immediately clams up again.

"No." He says, simply. Defeated, I focus on the road ahead.

"...You know, you never ask me how _I'm_ feeling, Keeper..." I mumble, and as soon as I've said it I half-hope that he didn't hear me. It takes him so long to respond that I'm lulled into a false sense of relief that he hadn't...Until he moves to speak.

"...Cicero assumed if Ula wanted to say anything, she's say it to him, yes? Is that a fair assumption to make?" I almost feel like he's plucking something from my own head and using it against me.

This snippy response irritates me, and I'm left with a clenched jaw already. "...Well, yes, of course," I lie, and he knows it a lie, and I realize in that moment he's baiting me so I try to backtrack even though I know I've been had - "But then again, it's always nice to be asked."

He seems to muse on this point for a bit, and perhaps my reluctance to give a straight answer.

I increasingly hate our interactions, especially as intimately charged as they are now. It's more like two conversations at once - one _spoken_ , and one _felt_ \- what we mean to say, and what we actually say out loud. And it feels like sometimes the threads get crossed, and I'm left reeling and a bit confused as to what emotion was mine and which was his.

"That's very true." He finally answers, though it's mostly to fill the silence. For a man who has historically hated silence, though, we seem to always be quiet around another. Even before, it was like we forgot how to talk like normal people.

Our means of communication is different than the average, though I wouldn't say I'm under the illusion that it's somehow non-toxic and altogether friendly. Sometimes it feels like we have to get angry and force ourselves to say how we feel than to do so of our own accord. I feel that way now, and the words want to burst from my chest but I hold them back.

He continues, lackadaisically: "Do you _want_ me to ask you, My Listener?"

For some reason, this ignites my fury further. "That's entirely besides the point, isn't it?"

"Maybe, but it's a simple question. Can't you _answer_ a _simple_ question?" He goads, eyes narrowing into accusing slits. I'm clenching my fists so tightly that I know if I looked down at them by my sides that my knuckles would be white.

"Of course I can - "

He mocks in a sing-song voice: "- You're still avoiding the question~ "

"- Why is it so important for you to hear exact words when it's implied that - "

He raises his voice, "- Because Ula is never fully honest with Cicero -! " I'm taken aback by this and scoff at him:

"- _First_ of all, I don't think anyone in the whole world is completely honest, and second: You're one to talk! I never get a straight answer out of you, most of the time - when it _matters_ , at least, and - "

"-Cicero -! ...Is tired." He says, voice quieting. I'm immediately thrown from my rage and try to discern what he means.

"...Hm?" The jester goes still, and I stop in my tracks, too. It's clearly meant to mean something important and he's disappointed I don't quite understand what he's trying to say.

"..." He says nothing, just stands there for a minute, and I can almost see his thoughts moving across his eyes. Like he's ankle-deep in a river and hand-fishing, but for the appropriate response rather than game.

I wait impatiently for him to just spit it out.

"...Nazir, he didn't want me 'alone' in the sanctuary." A pause, though this time much shorter. " ...He's actively _undermining_ my position - the respect Cicero _deserves_ -"

"- _That's_ not what this is about, is it?" I groan, "Well, can you really blame him? The last time you were left to your own devices, you stabbed Veezara and went after Astrid!"

In hindsight, I knew using her name set him off, and I should have censored myself. On the other hand, I was already upset at his pettiness and didn't stop to think of the consequences of my words. It's a habit.

He immediately stiffens, his freckled cheeks blooming red with rage. "That unworthy _harlot_ had it coming - And Cicero _knew_ what he was doing! For you to suggest that I simply _lost control_ is an insult and - "

"Waitaminnit, you stabbed Veezara on _purpose_!?" I gasp, horrified by this new development.

"-No! We went over this already, the damn lizard got in my way!" He clenches his fists and leans towards me. "-And besides, if we're going to get into past exploits and mistakes, how come you're keeping secrets from me? Hm? _Hm?_ " He gets in my face and I have the urge to swing at him. His anger and my anger are intermingling, and it's making me feel light-headed and dizzy.

"...I don't know what you're talking about!" I say, and that's the honest truth.

"No!?"

"No! I don't!" He moves into my space so suddenly I have a brief flash of a fear that he was lunging forward to - of all things - kiss me. He stares right into my eyes, amber into blue, long pointed nose nearly touching mine; forehead a hair breadth from smacking into mine.

"The. _Wizard_." He says, words forming around clenched teeth in an angry, breathless wheeze. I feel my eyes widen before I can cognitively process who or what he means -

...Marcurio?

I rear back, reeling in confusion and realization all at once. "-What!? How - How do you - How can you know about - ?"

"Lucien LeChance sees all from The Void, why not Cicero?" He answers, too still and eyes too focused. I'd be terrified if I didn't know he could never kill me. It's almost _comical_ how angry he is, and I'm only a little surprised by it.

"I can't believe you." I mutter, though my stammering starts to betray me the further along I get in explaining myself: "If you _knew_ , you should have - I _would_ have said something if I thought it was important - That's not fair! You have no right to be upset. I don't understand why you're even upset! I didn't know you knew, and I haven't been keeping that a secret! It was unimportant! It has nothing to do with The Dark Brotherhood or you, or our - " I wanted to say _relationship_ , but that was too strange of a word to describe our situation, and it soured in my throat. My voice cracked and faltered because of it and I was almost grateful for his interruption.

"-Lying by omission, then." He says, " _Lying_ all the same!"

I make an angry, exasperated noise. "I don't see why _any_ of it concerns you, Keeper. You were dead, I was dealing with things, and I thought putting a bit of distance between myself and certain things would prove to be a good distraction, and things didn't turn out exactly the way I planned -"

He scoffs at that, counting my mistakes on his long lutenist's fingers: "What Ula _accomplished_ is avoiding your duties, failing to do your job correctly, and being absent from a Family that needed rallying! All the while you were skipping about with some handsome mage and nearly getting yourself _killed_ in Dwemer ruins - " So that's what this is about. Everything is always about being The Listener, not about being Ulalume.

"You don't get to criticize me! I did my best in the wake of a series of traumatic events! You of all people know how difficult it is to process a Family-wide massacre - " My voice cracks and falters and we lapse into silence. He seems staggered by this for a moment, and then the jester rears up to full height. I feel dizzy, all of a sudden - disbelieving what I've said, and yet not regretting the way I spoke to him. I shrink back slightly, however, realizing I've probably gone too far and crossed a line I shouldn't have.

When he speaks, his voice is dark and flat and not even his speech eccentricities can make light of his rage. "Cicero dealt with more than you _know_ back in Cyrod, and even _you_ don't get to speak of his past." He presses a finger into my collarbone painfully, "Ula should be careful of what she says next. She's treading on _very_ thin ice."

"...I'm sorry." I mumble, avoiding his gaze like one would some snarling, territorial beast. I'm not sure if I actually feel all that contrite but continue in a quiet voice: "...However, that doesn't mean you get to pretend that you're the only person who's suffered. I had my reasons. Maybe what I did wasn't the best option, but I'm here now and that's what matters."

He seems to consider this a moment, then the lines of his body relax a little. "..." He takes a step back away from me, eyes still cold and narrowed in an accusing glare. "...Cicero's just decided...I'm not going into Riften with you."

"Why not?" I demand, though I don't really care about the reason - I'm more curious as to why he thinks it's a punishment.

"Cicero needs space! He's _very_ cross right now. Maybe everything will be quieter, the farther we are from each other."

"-Where are you going to go?" He immediately bristles at this questions and says:

"That's _my_ business! You don't dictate every facet of my life! Cicero promises he will meet up with you when you return, and you have to trust that his word is good." Of course I trusted he'd be back - the man couldn't simply give up being The Keeper or The Dark Brotherhood. It was his whole identity.

I flounder for a moment, opening and closing my mouth unattractively like a fish.

"-Well - _Fine_! Be that way! I don't want to see your face right now, anyhow!" I explode, fighting every urge I had to shove him away from me. Surely, we'd fight - and as much as my blood is singing with violence and the desire to feel my knuckles crack against his cheekbone, I know that it's not the healthiest way to hash out our frustrations.

He tenses visibly, and I'm sure he can feel my intent sitting in _his_ chest the way that his anger sits in _mine_. I speak through clenched teeth: "Go. Pout. I have a _job_ to do." I brush past him, soothing my need for violence by hitting my shoulder into his arm harshly. I dully think to myself that it makes me a bit uneasy that he's dropped the argument so abruptly, but I'm too distracted by the way he staggers slightly and says nothing. I had hoped to get a rise out of him, but it seems I'm out of luck.

I stalk down the path and realize, with our bickering, we've managed to burn enough time that we've come into view of the city's gate. I fight against the urge to look back to see if Cicero is following - because I know he's not - and angrily demand the guard to let me through.

He must see that I'm not to be trifled with at the moment and does so with an un-approving grunt.

* * *

I trudged into Riften and tried to take deep, calming breaths. I needed to be professional. I needed to center myself, relax. I represented The Dark Brotherhood, and I couldn't be going to a client upset like this.

The most likely place the client would be waiting is The Bee and Barb. If I was lucky, I wouldn't run into Brynjolf on the way, though on sunny days like this he was usually out in the marketplace. I had to be careful. It wasn't widely known throughout The Guild that I was part of The Dark Brotherhood, (And thank Sithis for that, there was a former Morag Tong member among our newest ranks) but Delvin knew - and I suspected he had made vague mentions to Brynjolf for the sake of warning him not to push me too far. Still, I'd rather not be seen at all if I could help it.

I pulled my hood up and made my way inside.

 _The jilted gambler..._

My eyes searched for the usual signs of one who had performed The Black Sacrament, but was immediately distracted upon seeing a familiar face.

Marcurio.


	28. Riften: The Reunion

My stomach feels like it dropped to the floor the instant my eyes landed upon the wizard.

It's been months since I last saw him - nearly a year, I realize with a bit of surprise - and yet the old anger and hurt rises up like bile in my throat. Flashes of our last argument play quickly through my head and it makes me dizzy with rage and disgust.

And yet...

He looks a bit disheveled, a bit of a jump from the last time I saw him, to be sure - clad in shining glass armor. I don't have enough hubris to think it's because of time spent apart, but rather that he's fallen on hard times. I fear for a moment that he's somehow returned to old habits, the gambling -

The gambling...

...The gambling...

And all at once I realize who my client is.

I curse into The Void quietly - And at Sithis for his strange and masterful hand pulling me into fate with prodding, forceful fingers. I begrudgingly attend to my duty, hoping against hope that I'm somehow wrong in my instinct and all I'll have to suffer through is an awkward reunion before moving on to do my job.

If he _is_ the client, however, then not only would I be surprised that he performed The Black Sacrament, but I'd also have to suffer at least one more conversation with him besides the initial one, here, to let him know the contract was fulfilled.

I felt emotionally exhausted already.

I linger for a bit in the corner of the tavern, mostly to gather my nerves and wits about me. I wasn't sure what to say, and I knew I couldn't open as if he were a stranger to me. When I finally scrounge up a basic idea of how I want to move the conversation along, I start to make my way over to him.

I falter and fail to tap him on the shoulder as I had planned to, and instead clear my throat. He moves from his hunched position to meet my countenance with his gaze and his expression twists from sour to surprised and put-off.

"-Ula?" He sputters, nearly knocking over his mead. I try to keep my face expressionless as I sit beside him at the counter, moving quickly and quietly.

"I'm not here for _you_ , exactly." I tell him, "I have business to attend to, and I think we better find a more private place to discuss things." He immediately changes his demeanor from surprised to confused, then settles on frustrated.

"You have the nerve to come here and -"

"This is not about anything that happened between us!" I hiss, pulling my hood over my face a bit more to muffle the sound. The Argonian across the counter of the bar shoots me an annoyed look, and I feel myself wither a bit. I had to be more careful. "...You want someone off your back, don't you? I have ways to make that happen."

He's surprised and confused again. "Well, yes, but - Wait, what? How did you - "

"I have contacts."

The realization hits him, and it makes me a little nauseous. It's not that I'm ashamed, far from it - I just don't want him to ask me to explain myself. "...No. Really? I... No, I - " His mouth open and closes after this, but no sound comes out.

I'm getting impatient.

"We need to find somewhere more private." I urge again. "I know you have questions, but I'm not in the mood for them nor am I able to indulge you with answers, even if I wanted to give them."

"No, you don't understand, I didn't - " I get up from the chair and tug on his arm. He seems half-frightened now, which sours my mood even more.

"Let's go. Upstairs, your room. Now. You're making a scene." He protests a bit more but still rises and follows me through the tavern and up into the room he rented.

He laughs, clearly nervous and breathless - "This is not...How I imagined I'd hear you say that for the first time, but -"

"Shut up." I shove him inside the small room and shut the door behind us.

He turns and looks at me somewhat expectantly, still obviously jarred and confused. In a dazed voice, he asks: "...Ula, you're in the - the - The Dark Brotherhood? When - when did you join? What - Where you - _The whole time_? - What?"

I'm getting even more impatient. This was taking far too long, and I had no doubt been seen. "-I can't answer that directly. Tell me who needs to be taken care of, and I'll see to it - provided you have the payment, of course." I squint at him. "...You _do_ have some coin left, don't you?" He pointedly ignores my question and continues:

"-You don't understand. If this is a...A Dark Brotherhood Thing, I've read some of the books. The few you can get your hands on, at least. But - I didn't perform the - The...Whatever you call it. I didn't - "

Now it's _my_ turn to be confused. It takes a moment for me to figure out my phrasing, but I respond with:"...You...You want someone dead, don't you? I've been sent here to - I know it's you - it _has_ to be you. I just know it." This is more than embarrassing, and it's like I can feel the multitude of my soul start to descend from my mortal coil and go straight to Oblivion. Or the Void. If I was wrong, I might have broken a tenant - Cicero might be right, and I'd be punished for this mishap; Maybe with my _life_. For it all to end now just because I made a mistake was a sobering thought to have.

No.

I _felt_ it. It was a sort of secondary sense one acquires after being in the business for a bit. As much as I wanted it to not be true, I knew it my heart of hearts that this man _was_ the client I was sent to talk to.

He looks uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable."...Well, I'm more than reasonably sure it is, but I didn't do...The thing."

"...What do you mean?"

Here, his voice dips low."I didn't perform the Black Sacrament." He repeats.

"..." I frown and start to back away. Clearly, I have made a mistake and I'm ashamed that this man distracted me. I'd have to walk into my death and Cicero's disappointment with head held high and commit myself more to Sithis and pray that The Dread Lord wouldn't cut me down if he saw how meek my heart was. "...It can't be you, then. You _have_ to - "

"-But I _do_ want someone dead! I'm not too proud to say it, and _really_ \- it's for a good cause!"

"-That's what everyone says." I scoff. "Don't worry, however, as it is not my place to judge. I am only the executioner."

I decide to test him, make sure he really _really_ is the client I'm supposed to be meeting. It doesn't make any sense, but even if I could, _Mother_ wouldn't make a mistake, would she?

And if this wasn't a mistake...What was his price, then, if not The Black Sacrament or The Prayer?

I look at him.

... _The jilted gambler..._

"...Tell me more."

He shifts uncomfortably again - because this _is_ an uncomfortable reunion - and begins.

"...Some small-time drifter-type wants in with the Thieves Guild and is cheating at cards here at the Bee and Barb. He's put me near back where I started with debt. I payed off who I had to before, but now I owe this bastard a good sum. And - ugh, I see your expression. You're judging."

"I'm not, I'm listening." I assure him. Guilt was a strange thing, something I had the fortune of rarely feeling.

"Look, I've _proved_ this cheating, I want to add - and _still_ no one will do anything. It's Riften, though, so I'm not sure what I expected."

"What about the Guild?"

"The Thieves Guild doesn't care because he hasn't stepped on anyone toes just yet - And _you-know-who_ doesn't find him annoying enough right now. I think she's somehow gotten even cockier since The Guild made it's comeback."

"Maven." I mumble. "...Well, he's smart if he's stayed clear of her - I'll give him that."

"Right. He wants in, and he knows she's the ticket."

"Tell me more."

"I know The Guild doesn't do the sort of...Permanent thing The Dark Brotherhood does, but at first I was willing to have him just get roughed up so he would forgive the debt. No one would listen to me, though. I warned them that if they don't do something soon, it'll get ugly - and Maven won't like it, and he might try to start his own ring. I was going to just leave it at that and be resigned to my fate and skip town, but - Well, there's reasons why I didn't want to do that. Plus...Well..."

"What changed?"

"...Now it's gotten personal. He's threatened me with blackmail, and he's hinted that he knows where I hail from. I can't risk calling his bluff - and I _know_ it's a bluff - because I don't want word to be sent back to my parents on the off-chance he really does know who I am. They really don't need to know where I am or if I'm even still alive. The Guild is looking the other way, even if it's really in their best interest to either reign him in and recruit him - or squash him before he becomes a liability." He shifts, and his expression goes a bit grim. "...In fact, I think the only reason they haven't done anything is because your de facto Guild Master doesn't like me and has a personal vendetta."

I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. "...Brynjolf can be really useless, sometimes. It's a wonder they get along without me. I'll deal with him later."

Marc rolled his eyes, clearly in agreement with me. "Yeah, well, I've exhausted all other options, too. I even tried sending word to _The Companions_ about this. I heard that they usually send someone out to punch people like this in the face, right?"

"Wow." I blinked. "...You don't even - That _is_ pretty desperate. Last time I checked, Vilkas holds the reigns over there, so... I trust that went...Interestingly."

"It ended as well as you might expect."

"Yeah?" I caught myself getting a bit too relaxed and straightened. "...What happened?"

"I was met with an amused laugh and a flat-out denial, because I have a - quote, 'history,' and they don't trust me on my word. It's also because I'm a...Let me say it right...A: _'Poncy, Milk-Drinking Imperial Wizard._ '" He grimaced for a moment, as if the very words soured on his tongue. I almost laughed, if not for the semi-seriousness of the situation. This was a _job_ and I had to be _professional._ It didn't help that I could _hear_ Vilkas' voice in my mind spitting that exact phrase into Marcurio's face. I would have payed a pretty decent sum of septims to have the moment re-enacted, but alas.

I gathered myself together before continuing."...Right. Well, as a rule, The Companions aren't too keen on magic-users, and they aren't too happy with the Empire or _Imperials_ as a whole - though they won't say as much, on official grounds of being politically neutral. Suffice to say, I expected a response like that."

"Yeah, well, either way, I didn't get any help. So - Well... I - ...Well, let's just say I've been wishing _really_ hard that this cheat would just keel over soon. I guess it payed off somehow."

... _So. It really is about gambling...He couldn't have known that..._

I sigh. There is really no explanation for this.

"...That matches up with my intel."

He shifts uncomfortably again.

"...But I don't really understand." I continue, "...It doesn't normally work this way. Do you know of anyone else he's ripped off that could want him dead? Any of the other Black-Briar's, maybe?" I tried to think of another big family in Riften. "...The Snow-Shod's?"

"Not that I personally know of, though he's guaranteed to have done it to other people more than a few times. I just don't think it's been anyone important - drifters, others who knew better and cut their losses. Wanderers, etcetera."

"Hmm..." I was a bit out of my element.

It pained me to think I'd have to ask Cicero if this was something that could happen, or if perhaps I was distracted from the 'real' client. Regardless, this cheat was most likely my _target_ and I'd fulfill my contract, even if the entry-point was wrong. That could potentially fix everything, even if Marcurio being connected to all this was giving a false positive.

I wasn't really sure what to think, so I just rolled with it. I had to be more trusting in The Night Mother and Sithis - after all, hadn't they always been right before?

"Alright." I shrugged, Marcurio peered curiously at me.

"...That's...It?"

"That's it." I answered.

"...Oh." He shuffled backwards a bit. "Well. Okay." He coughed into his fist and suddenly found it hard to look into my eyes. "Uh, well...Onto more, uh, personal endeavors. Um, how are you? How have you been?"

"I'm not here on a social call, Marc." I drew my hood tighter around myself. "I have to go." I start to turn, but he exclaims:

"No! I - Wait. I feel like...Well, I've been thinking it over a lot, and I - " I turn to him fully once more, impatient. "...I...Perhaps I was out of line. With what happened."

" _Perhaps?_ " I hiss, and he seems startled by my sudden anger.

"...I - Well...I over-reacted, yes. But - But it came from a good place, I swear. I'm trying to apologize!" I bare my teeth at him.

"Marcurio, you assumed I was some delicate little flower waiting to be plucked and saved in a dainty vase - that was your first mistake. The second was that you assumed you meant enough to me that you could scold me like a child without consequence." I saw his composure crumple and the light in his eyes dim a bit.

"...That's a bit harsh."

"But true."

"...I suppose it is."

"And then you left." I made a show of being upset. "I was hurt, and you _left_." He winced at that, so I dug the proverbial knife a bit deeper. "I had to carry all that dwemer metal by myself! And I had to spend much of it getting my side mended."

He glances down at his hands, worrying his fingers at the hem of his orange robe sleeve. "That's not how it happened- I _wanted_ to help, but you wouldn't -"

Damn.

"-You know what? I don't want to talk about this. What's done is done."

He seems a bit frustrated with me, but acquiesces. "...Okay. Well, listen. One last thing."

"Fine."

"...I'm...Sorry about all that. I really am. I was upset, and my pride - My pride forced me to stay my course."

I frowned. Clearly, it was difficult for him to admit he was wrong and apologize, but that didn't automatically abscond him from his actions.

"I was worried about you, you know." The wizard continued, "That's how it all started! And perhaps I acted out of line, but - Well, I'm glad you're okay now. I just - I really..." He glances up, "...I am fond of the time we spent together. It was...Interesting. In a good way, I mean! I just - I...Miss you."

Oh, Sithis. This man was so pathetic, it actually made me feel something deep in my chest. I hated it.

I feel embarrassment creep up my neck in a flush of heat. Gods and Daedra - What a foolish wizard, to say such things with no shame."...Are - are we really doing this right now? I have a lot of things on my to do-list, if you know what I mean, and - "

"No, listen - We can start over, if you want. It's - It's been Oblivion here, you know? I wanted to leave Riften, and I _could_ have - I had my debts re-payed, I had some gold left over for expenses, skipping town would have been the best course of action before this blackmailing-and-hiring-an-assassin bit - I even had renewed vigor for adventure and travel and scholarship after our journey - I could have gone on my own, commissioned a small expedition - but I didn't. Do you want to know why?"

"..." I don't answer, because I know the answer, but I don't want to say.

"I...I was waiting. I was..." He laughs nervously, " - I admit, I see now that I am a bit foolish and pathetic, because I had _hoped_ maybe...That I'd see you again. Or at least have the chance to. I know you have arbitrary ties here, and - well...I guess it looks like it wasn't all completely for naught, even if the circumstances are quite grim."

I couldn't help but point out how this sounded to me. "...Am I to swoon, now?" I quirked an eyebrow. His mouth twitched down at one corner, clearly displeased.

"No, of course not." He answered, "I'm just trying to be transparent, here. I thought you might appreciate it. ...For once." I shift awkwardly, a bit taken aback at this unabashed response. "I guess not."

I was a bit out of practice speaking to someone who bore his emotions and intentions on his sleeve.

"Ah," I replied, shamed. He must see that plainly on my face because he seems to shift his thoughts. Perhaps he understood that was the closest he was ever going to get as an apology from me, or perhaps he only wanted to see that I _could_ be shamed.

"...Uh, so...What sorts of things are you doing now?" He looks at me a bit hopefully, though he's clearly trying to play off his interest as passive, curious apathy.

"..." I decide to indulge him just the tiniest bit. He was, after all, a _client._ "...I went to the College. The one in Winterhold?...It isn't as good as the one in Cyrod, I've heard."

"Oh? Yes. ...As a student, I presume?"

"Yes."

He seems a bit crestfallen to hear this. "...And what did you learn?"

I shrug. "I'm more of a field scholar and a do-er than a strict academic."

"Ah." He seems relieved. "I suspected as much. What school did you study, if I may ask?"

"The School of Conjuration."

"Really? Not Destruction?" I rolled my eyes at him and try to think of a clever line to distract him from the question. I couldn't really _tell_ him why I chose Conjuration; but truth be told I was never interested in performing the sort of magic he did. I always liked illusions and summoning, in theory.

"...No. I can create flame with my own Voice, why would I seek to make it in the palm of my hand?"

He blinks. "...That's quite true. I never thought of that. Especially as you are reluctant to use such a power."

 _Damn._ "That's besides the point, isn't it?" I reply, dryly.

"Perhaps." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "...So, what do you plan on doing after this uhh...Job?"

I think on that a moment. "...Straightening out Brynjolf, firstly. Then I'll be going back to what I've been doing. I have a few responsibilities I'd neglected."

"Oh?" An eyebrow quirks up. "Like what?" I clam up immediately, and I hope he doesn't notice my defensiveness.

"Things. Can't talk about it." Ah, yes, that was smooth and undetectable.

"Ah." Another shift of his weight, and I realize he's being a bit coy. "...So, are you traveling with anyone - ?"

"-Marc, no, not this." I interrupt. "I - " He barrels on through, anyways, and I find myself irked that he doesn't listen as well as Cicero does.

"-Listen, Ula, after this whole thing settles, I'd really like to make amends. I know that things didn't end well, and I - "

"I'm busy." I tell him, hoping he won't launch into another speech, "I'm doing other things, now. With...Other people."

"...Oh." He frowned deeply. "...I understand."

His face crumples into absolute disappointment, and I feel a tingle of dismay deep in my chest. The expression he wears is so upsetting that I fear he may collapse into a puddle of depression right then and there and die of a broken heart.

I'm not sure how to respond to this strong of a reaction. It actually scares me a bit.

"Not like - Not like..." Not like what? Not like what he's thinking? I don't know what he's thinking. Not like _that_ , whatever _'that'_ is? ...But, isn't it? "...Look, I need time." I choke out, and I actually physically cringe. This is going to cause more _problems_ \- I don't know why I like to make my own life more _difficult -_

"Right." He mumbles, clearly broken and uninterested in my attempt to make things right between us. I seek to remedy this with some measure of unavoidable pity.

"Marc-"

"No, it's fine." He makes a vague hand gesture. "I...Don't really know why I expected-"

"Marc, look at me." He finally meets my eyes again. I gather my thoughts for a moment, wringing my hands. "I need time to think."

He says nothing.

"...I...Might...Need to figure out why this whole thing happened the way it did. That means I might have to ask you some more questions, try to understand this singular event in a way that makes sense."

"...So..." He perks up a bit, "...What you're saying that, there's a chance - "

"We _might_ see each other again, in the future. I don't know about traveling together, but - "

"Okay." He breathes a sigh of relief, tense shoulders relaxing. "I mean, that doesn't sound very promising, but, I mean it's - "

"-Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Just let me do my job, and when we come to that bridge we'll cross it." I start to move towards the exit awkwardly. "...I uh, I guess I'll...See you later, then."

"Right." He answers, just as stiffly.

* * *

When I leave The Bee and Barb in it's entirety, I try to rationalize what I've just promised.

...I find that I have trouble doing so.


	29. Riften: The Conclusion

The red-head's eyes flutter closed as he attempts to take deep, stabilizing breaths. Even without our strange connection, I can tell he's absolutely _furious_ \- _**livid**_ , even. I wither in anticipation of the rage. When he spoke, I could tell that even the civil tone pained him.

"...Cicero wanted to apologize for his outburst earlier, My Listener..." He began through gritted teeth: "...Moving onward, however, he must warn of the sensitive nature of his forthcoming criticism."

Ah, he was using _smart words_. I automatically numb myself emotionally, putting up barriers between us and forcing my face to not betray a wince. If he was going to rip into me, it was probably best if I didn't emote and show vulnerability. "...You're here to keep me in line." I mumble, choosing not to avert my eyes from his face. That would be cowardly. "...Go ahead."

He rears up slightly to full height, fixing the perpetual goblin-esque hunch he adopts to appear less threatening. I'm slightly apalled at how much taller he appears, though that's not saying much - the man looks short, generally, nearer to my height than not, but when he straightens I'm reminded at how much more imposing he can be; Though he is slender in his frame.

"...I think that you were distracted from the real client, because what you've spoken of-? With all due respect, Listener, it makes absolutely _no sense_. Things just don't work that way. It's alarming that The Listener would believe in such blatantly misguided conjecture, even. I'm ashamed _for_ you."

My mouth twitches down into a frown. "So, then, explain to me why there was no other contact?"

"Well - "

...It appears I couldn't hold on to my numbness at all.

I was growing tired of being treated this way, truth be told. I am not a child, and I'm no ward to be chastised.

"Do you really think that I just left it like that? I spent the _rest_ of the day with eyes and ears open to see if I'd somehow been mislead. There was nothing. Not a whisper, not a vague mention, nor anyone who seemed to be waiting to meet up with a contact. _Nothing_. I _know_ what clients look like. I know the feel they give off. _You_ know that. There was _nothing!_ "

He crossed his arms and put on a thoughtful expression. "...Hm."

" _Hm_ is right." I scoff, though I dully think _'At least he believes me-'_ "It would be _easier_ if he _wasn't_ the client. I don't want this. I wish it wasn't like this. You know how I feel about unnecessarily difficult situations."

"...That's very true." He muttered, frowning. I notice he starts to wring his hands, so I back off a bit. He doesn't seem _contrite_ , but this slight discomfort and clear doubt is enough.

"...So, you _haven't_ heard of anything like this happening before, then - Judging by your carefully subdued outburst, at least."

"No, Listener." He uncrossed his arms. "...Cicero supposes that there has been a few very odd things occurring lately that have never been done before within The Dark Brotherhood. I'd know of this sort of thing occurring before your time, if there had been. There's no history of it, no recollection, no note."

"What do you think this means?" He thinks on this for a moment before he answers:

"...I don't think That Mother would abandon the way we do things, but that's just my opinion. What I do know is that Cicero trusts his UnHoly Matron completely. She spoke the first tenets, laid down the foundation of our Family; If there are new things coming to pass, she will tell us on her own time."

His unwavering faith actually soothed a bit of my anxiety. If he wasn't worried, then I had no reason to be, either.

Probably.

* * *

The target died easily and quietly, an arrow to the throat that left him breathless and writhing on the broken cobble of the deserted road that stretched just beyond the hold wall of Riften. Abandoned and nearly entirely unlit by lanterns, the area was prime for a killing and no guards were ever on rotation here.

It was almost disappointing.

I sat in the tree I had perched myself in for a while, contemplating the darkness and what the future may hold. I told myself I was comforted by Cicero's words about The Night Mother, but I was still anxious and nervous. I didn't feel threatened in my position, but there was still a measure of fear that I had done something _wrong_ , that I had somehow messed up enough that Mother had to fix things by doing something out of the ordinary. I tried to think over the past few months and found nothing, but still -

Still.

Cicero seemed to think I was incompetent, blinded by my own emotions. I'm aware he probably had always thought this, but now I was actually afraid that he was right. And this time, he was closer than ever to actually saying it to my face. I wasn't sure if I could handle that sort of criticism.

When had I forgotten to numb myself? Where had the fall began?

I couldn't say, definitively. I hadn't been aware it was happening in the first place.

I found myself gripping the riser of my bow tightly, white-knuckled fist stark against dark ebony metal.

But I _am_ trying my best, and surely that is enough?

...I worried that it wasn't.

I was tired of Cicero chastising me, of the unspoken but obvious questioning of my methods that he and even Nazir tended to do. If I wasn't suitable for my title, why have me at all? It was only a little comfort that The Night Mother _chose_ me, for if there had been anyone _better_ , surely she would have chosen _them_ instead of me?

* * *

"We need to talk."

"Why talk?" I stop in my tracks, not expecting him to just outright reject me. Give me a hard time, perhaps, but not flat out _deny_ me. I suppose I had just gotten used to him being a sort of yes-man. I felt a nausea rise in my throat with this realization; I was turning into the leader he had wanted me to be, but at the cost of my own personal hatred of tyrants. "I already disagree with what you're going to do," He elaborated.

It takes me a moment to re-calibrate."...What? - And how do you _know_ what I'm going to do? I wasn't even - I was talking about things between _us_ , not - Not this other business with the wizard."

"When you go into the tavern, you're going to lose focus and remember promises you've made. That mage will want to come with you, and you can't or _won't_ say no to him on the pretense of _study_ , and _figuring out how this situation happened -_ and then we'll have to deal with that. _Cicero_ will have to deal with that. I think it's a bad idea, and it's also possibly breaking a tenant. You want my opinion? There. Conversation over."

I'm quiet.

Right. Okay. It sounds like something I'd do, and I have no rebuttal because that's exactly the outcome I _don't_ want to happen and now I'm anxious because it most assuredly _will_.

"...We'll deal with that later." I say, waving dismissively, "I want to talk about this hostility between us, get things sorted out once and for all. If we're to move forward, we need to have a fresh start. Things are changing."

"This again?" He mutters.

"...We never do it right."

"What makes you think it will work this time?"

"Because it needs to."

He is silent. I take a deep breath.

"...I take issue with your constant disregard for my way of doing things. If you have a better suggestion or an opinion you feel should be shared, by all means: Do so. It's _expressly_ your place to speak up."

He doesn't miss a beat. "And _Cicero_ takes issue with how you handle things, especially things that happen between _us_." I frown.

"...What do you mean? If you have a problem with me, by all means: spit it out. I'm tired of this constant passive-aggressiveness."

His face gives no expression. "You want Cicero to be honest?"

"Yes."

"Is that an _order_ , My Listener?" I can feel myself start to clam up but I refuse to let him press my buttons so easily.

" _Yes_." He betrays no emotion, still, eyes fixed on my face.

"As you wish, My Listener." He bows, bending himself at the waist - and although its a gesture of servitude, he somehow makes it feel condescending. "Cicero has held his tongue somewhat, since he trusts in our Lady's wisdom. As Keeper, it is not my place to disrespect The Listener, nor to disobey her orders - To do so would be to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. However, if The Listener is giving Cicero a platform for free speech, then I have a few things to say."

I wince. I have the distinct notion that he will spare no tact and will be harsh and cruel, but I brace myself and hope for the best.

"You have a weakness, Listener."

"Oh?" I challenge, hoping he might falter and be a kinder than what he plans. He does not. I was foolish to think he had mercy.

"Yes, and I find it to be absolutely _pathetic_ \- because you could be _more._ " Hearing the word _pathetic_ hiss from his usually smiling mouth was like a knife to the chest. "You use me as a crutch - It's...Frankly, disgusting."

 _Disgusting._

"You, Ulalume, are a blade against the throat of the masses, a commander - a _leader_ , I dare declare, and you squander your power with self-doubt." He presses an accusatory finger against my collarbone and I cringe. "You are _powerful_ , My Listener, and yet you reduce yourself to the opinions of sheep - _you_ , a wolf among them! Cicero thinks it's high time you got a _slap to the face_ and recognize your place. I've played nice for far too long, tried many ways to get you to _see_ \- but your eyes remain closed."

I say nothing. My stomach is sour, and bile threatens to escape from my throat. I shrink against his words, eyes unable to meet his gaze - and I absolutely hate myself for it.

He moves back a bit, giving me breathing room. "When this began, I thought to go about it as I would any other - flattery. When that didn't work, I moved to _validation_ \- it appears it worked too well."

My mouth was dry as I spoke, voice small and cracked in a way that made me hate myself.

"...Validation?" Thoughts raced to and from, trying to piece together what he was trying to tell me, dissect interactions we've had since we first met. The creeping horror and dawning realization eluded me entirely but remained in some sort of strange periphery in my emotions. I was trying to numb myself, but found that I was growing increasingly agitated.

"...Listener - "

"Are you saying every nice thing you've ever said to me was just a lie? A way to get me to be The Listener you and Mother so desperately want me to be? Because I'm not _enough_ \- because I'm not _perfect -?_ "

This man looks me in the eye, and I have enough respect for myself to hold his gaze. An unknowable expression flickers across his face for a moment, and then a sort of peace seems to wash over him.

"Yes."

I physically step back from him, shock making me shudder.

I never really felt heartbreak before, but I was sure this was it.

I felt so foolish, so betrayed. I definitely had not been expecting _this_ to be the subject of our conversation.

 _Of course_ , **Of Course!** I scolded myself for ever believing this horrible man could feel anything for me other than disdain. _I'd Killed Him_ \- I'd broken Tenants under Astrid's reign, something he could never understand or sympathize with. I was The Listener, a position _he_ wanted, and he didn't think me _good enough_ for it.

Instead of being sad, however, I went straight to rage.

I shoved him angrily, tears already threatening to spill free.

Copper eyes alighted in the darkening evening, shining bright against the foliage of the forest that surrounded Riften.

"You're a bastard, do you know that, _Keeper!_?" He let me shove him once more before grabbing my wrists and laughing - which made me even more upset.

"Yes! _Use_ that rage!" He cackled. I ripped my wrists free from his grasp and wound up for a good punch, aiming straight for his teeth. He easily dodged my strike and pulled my arm so that I would stumble forward onto my hands and knees. I rose quickly, trying to swing at him again - but my form was sloppy, and my eyesight was blurry with tears.

He dodged the next strike too, pulling my fist into his palm and locking my arm at the elbow. I screamed in a mixture of anguish and rage and kicked at him, hoping to crack a rib or at the very least knock the wind out of him. I had to be careful however, as I didn't want to accidentally activate the Thu'um.

I was yelling words at him, I think, but I was so upset that I really didn't know exactly _what_ I was saying. Whatever it was, it made him laugh even harder.

He grunted as the kick connected, then resumed his horrible tittering as I attempted to do it again. He caught my leg and flung me backwards, and I landed on my tailbone. I barely felt the pain as I tried to push forward, doing anything I could to get at him.

I lunged forward, wrapping my hands around his throat. We collapsed onto the forest floor, narrowly dodging a fallen log. I pressed hard immediately, cutting off one of his laughs so that it turned into a squeak and then finished with a wheeze.

His hands went to my hips, gripping so hard I thought he might bruise the skin there - " _Gunna kill Cicero **again** , Listener?"_ He choked out, his mouth contorted into a horrible grin. " _Break a Tenant?_ "

I pressed harder so he couldn't speak, jamming my thumbs into his adam's apple. He tried to swallow but couldn't, and his eyes started to water. I put my full weight against his stomach, trying to choke every last wisp of air from his body. I leaned into him, drawing my mouth close to his ear.

"You'd want that, wouldn't you? You smug little _fool_ -" He shuddered, fingers pressing harder, "You'd love it if you made me break a tenant. It'd validate all your distaste for me, and you'd feel better about hating me because _I'm The Listener and you're not_." I pull back slightly too see the look on his face.

His eyes are bright, burning against the black kohl that lined his eyes, bright even against the orange glow of the evening. I let up on the pressure and he gasps for air in great gulping breaths, hands still pressing me against him with bruising fingers.

The rage begins to melt, the anger, the hurt - the smugness from needling him where I know it hurts the most.

And I'm only a _little_ horrified at my reaction.

"...Are you finished?" His voice is strained from my efforts of choking him, and I crash back into reality.

 _...What am I doing?_

We sit like this for a moment, his grip loosening as he realizes I'm starting to calm down. I remove my hands from his throat entirely and do my best to sit up on my knees instead of sitting astride his stomach.

"...Why do you want me to hate you, hm? Speak." I loom over him, trying to look threatening. I was angry, and I may have over-reacted, but I wasn't ashamed of my outburst and didn't want to seem like I was going to back down just because I had calmed down.

He averts his gaze, which surprises me.

"...Cicero doesn't want you to _hate_ him. Not really. I'm trying to teach you something."

"What does that mean? You're either lying to me right now, or you've been lying this whole time. Which is it? Why tell me this? What do you gain by doing that?"

He says nothing, so I crush his diaphragm with my weight. He wheezes and grabs my waist again, trying to relieve some of the pressure by lifting me up a bit. I don't let him, pressing down harder. I'm also acutely aware as to how this might appear to an outsider - perhaps a lover's embrace in the woods - and the thought somehow makes me even more irritated.

" _Speak, Keeper."_ I snap.

"...Is that an order, My Listener?" He mutters, eyes half-lidded and mouth twitching into a disapproving frown.

I hate when he does this.

"You didn't have any trouble speaking earlier."

" _Is that an_ _ **order**_ _, Listener?"_ He reiterates with a hiss, glaring up at me in hatred.

" **Yes!** " He relaxes slightly, shutting his eyes. It was like I passed some arbitrary test, because his expression melts into something that is anything but aggressive.

It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, but he does speak when prompted. "...Cicero is...Scared of you. It's better if The Listener and him are not so close."

I blink.

" _Scared_ of me?" I'm completely confused. This man - this horrible man who delighted in death and chaos was...Afraid of me? I'd lost my temper here, and I'd lost control, but that couldn't be it. Was it...Because I'd killed him? Because I was The Dragonborn?

"...Yes, but not because he thinks you're a monster or anything." He answers, almost as if he can read my thoughts. "In fact, it's the opposite. You're...Hm. Cicero thinks that perhaps it's better if you hate him, because...I think it affects you too much. It affects _him_ too much." He admits, a nervous laugh escaping between his teeth. "This whole business with the mage is -" He stops himself, shakes hid head, "...Ulalume needs to be the best she can be, and she's brought down by how she feels about Cicero, and Cicero is scared that he's fulfilling his duty as Keeper because of how he feels about Ula. It's just...It's just best if we aren't like this."

"Best for who -? Best for us - or for _The Dark Brotherhood_?" I accuse. He has enough mind to look at least a little ashamed.

"...Both. Us? No - _me_." He furrows his brow. "...Cicero isn't actually sure."

"It's always about our titles. Every damn thing." I feel the urge to punch him again, so I get up.

I remove myself from his space immediately, trying to put much needed distance between us. It took him a moment to rise as well, dusting leaves and dirt from his motley.

"..." He says nothing, probably unsure what or how he's _supposed_ to respond with. He opens and closes his mouth, and for once the man with the words is speechless. That is, until he manages to mutter: "...This very situation proves that it's gone too far, but Cicero isn't sure how to rectify this. Not in any way that doesn't end in Death, at least." He laughs nervously, "...I've already gone against duty to satisfy a personal need; As Keeper, I know what should be done - We should be distant and professional, of course - but _I_ can't seem to commit to the idea."

It takes a moment to process what he's telling me. I'm dubious against such a bold and bare-faced admission. He's not normally this forth-coming, and it makes me nervous.

"...Is this another trick? You've been giving me very mixed signals. One moment you tell me that everything you've ever told to me has been a lie, and now you're saying _that_ was a lie. Which is it?"

"...Of course, Cicero has never outright _lied_ to you , you see -"

"-Until now."

"No! I - I just sought to manipulate your outlook. that's all! But I quickly realized that perhaps it was...The wrong course of action. It would maybe get the results I'd wanted, but...No. Like I said, I...Personal feelings are in the way. I know what I _must_ do, but - I can't. I wish I could."

"Oh? And why did you change your mind so suddenly?"

He squirms uncomfortably. "...I realized that... I didn't want you...To hate me..."

"So you're backtracking. How do I know this isn't another layer of that manipulation?"

"Cicero doesn't say or do anything he doesn't truly want to. Not for long, anyways. He's had many opportunities to cut the 'ruse,' I suppose, and I haven't."

"But you just tried to, now." I pointed out. He floundered for a moment.

"...Because I thought it would help!" He shoots back, clearly exasperated. "I saw that it didn't. I thought you'd just...Get angry, harden yourself and move onward, but you - you were... _Crying._ " He averts his eyes for a moment, clearly on edge now. He's twitchy and agitated, wringing his fingers as if he could squeeze the life out of them.. "...And I realized I didn't want to burn bridges between us, precariously built even as they are. I...I was trying to show you something, here. Attachments are a weakness."

I blinked. We stared at each other in silence for a moment before I reached up to touch my cheek and was horrified to find remnants of drying tears. I glanced down at my fingers to see the evidence for myself, then looked back up to Cicero.

I'm angry at myself.

"...You believed me." His face is expressionless, eyes downcast and avoiding my face. "You believed me _right away_ when I said those things." His expression crumples a bit, just long enough for me to see the utter disappointment and hurt. "...I'm not surprised, but it's a confirmation of a lot of things Cicero has expected of The Listener. Self-doubt is a cage that Ula is trapped in."

"...It...Hurt me." I say, and it feels ham-fisted - but I'm trying to ignore my bruised pride while also trying to explain myself to this man. I thought to reward his honesty with a bit of my own. "...I thought we were partners. I thought you were in my corner." I wince at how pathetic I sound.

"I am." He says, and I know he means it, but his actions have soured my trust in him - ever waving, even as it was.

I glance down at my hands again.

"...For once in my life, I just wanted to believe that someone cared about me. And you said that, and -" _And it confirmed all my greatest fears_ \- "I over-reacted, I'll admit that."I'm still not entirely ashamed of myself, just surprised I lost my cool that quickly.

He shuffled on his feet.

This was awkward.

"...The Night Mother obviously wants us to work closely...And who am I to deny her will?" The red-head began, "...But even so, Cicero is still _angry_. ...At Her, at himself. At you. Wasn't _he_ good enough? Wasn't _he_ loyal? Didn't _he_ sacrifice _everything_ just to keep The Dark Brotherhood afloat? And now - now this, with us, and The Void-Bond, and Keeping The Listener in line. It's my job. If I'm good enough to teach, why am I not good enough to _do?_ "

"...The Night Mother needs you as her Keeper." I tell him.

"...I know." He sighs, absolutely crestfallen.

I say nothing, not sure what I could do to make it better between us.

Finally, when the silence grows too heavy I say:"...I...I read your journals, when...Astrid - When she forced me to." His jaw noticeably clenches when I mention her name, but I'm not trying to start a fight and he must realize that because that's as far as it goes. "...I know what happened. To you." I realize the subject-matter is a bit farther than we usually reach, and perhaps it wasn't the best way to _soothe_ \- but it a change in pace that I hope he recognizes as my willingness to understand him better, so that we can make amends.

"A fraction of what really took place." He mumbles, and a dull part of my emotional schema becomes excited at the idea that he might be opening up to me, for once. "I wasn't looking for a _reward_ to my suffering, but...Sitting alone in the dark, underground, with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company - Couldn't escape from The Silence...Not for long, and when I did - " He frowns suddenly, and the sharing is over - much to my disappointment. "- Enough. We're not talking about that. Not right now."

"...Then when?" I press, hoping my stubbornness outweighs his desire for avoidance. "Maybe you should talk to _somebody_ about it, it might help - "

"No." He rejects. "Besides, we're getting off topic."

I feel myself melting into a puddle of absolute disappointment."...Okay." Then: "So, what did this accomplish?"

"Nothing." The jester says.

I'm afraid that I have to agree with him."...Nothing. Right." I reiterate with a sigh. "...I didn't mean for us to fight. I just want things to be better between us. Changes are coming, and we're hardly sorted yet."

"If you want things better between us, then heed my words: _You_ need to stop shackling yourself to other's expectations. You don't need my acceptance, you just need The Night Mother's - and she's already given you her blessing. What more do you want?"

"...You act like it's all _my_ fault. You have problems of your own that prevents us from budging from the place we're stuck in. You should at least _admit_ it."

He looks upon me as if he's pondering something, then makes a dismissing wave.

"Perhaps, but I gave _you_ a place to start, and surely that is enough for now."

"...And Mother? What do you think she thinks of all this?"

"Cicero cannot truly know Mother, only The Listener can. Instead of asking _me_ , perhaps you could ask _Her_. As for this wizard business, The Fool of Hearts has already said his peace."

"...That's what you have to say? And here, all along, I had been hoping for some kind of insight."

He cocks his head like a dog might, and perhaps someone else might find it endearing, but I happen to see it as a vaguely threatening gesture. "Why, yes - of course, My Listener. Cicero just imparted unto you some very wise words, indeed. Don't you find comfort in the guiding hand that is Our Lady?"

"Well, yes, but - Perhaps we should think critically about this -"

"Absolutely. You mean to bring an outsider into the fold and Cicero cannot comfortably abide by that - it betrays our secrets, does it not?"

"It doesn't."

"By proxy, then, surely." He fixes me in a stare that is meant to intimidate me. "...There are no loopholes in The Tenants, Listener. They are not like the soft-laws of the Thieves Guild where you pay a fine into greedy hands and make amends."

"..." I frown, biting back against another argument. I'm sure he's baiting me, but I can't figure out entirely _why_.

"...It isn't that hard, My Listener. Cicero isn't sure _why_ this fluke happened, nor is he much concerned about it. I think if you _make_ it something, it will be, but if you leave it unexplored - there is no harm there. It's neither here nor there when it comes to _why_ ' _s_ and _how's_ , as you've gotten the job done and that is that."

"...If there's anything I've learned, it's that Mother is vague. I _feel_ like this is something, and as Listener I'm the only one qualified to really say if that should be explored. And I'm in favor for it."

He visibly shudders, hands twitching into loose fists.

'As _Keeper_ I implore you not to pursue this. It _could_ be a test of loyalty - one that you will _fail_ if you choose to reveal our secrets. Even if you don't come right out and say you're a part of the Dark Brotherhood, it's more than implied - the wizard will know - _does_ know - and it'll still be breaking a tenant. The only way to absolve you of the sin of visibility is to _kill_ the person who has this forbidden knowledge. I don't think you want to do that, hm?"

"...No. But I'm convinced this is _something_ , and if I ignore it - I'm afraid _that_ will be my failure."

The red-head pauses in his machinations, suddenly incredibly still. He seems to ponder this for a moment in this reverie before turning to me. "...As you will, then, My Listener."

"That's all?"

"No. One final thing: Don't you dare say that Cicero didn't warn you when the Wrath of Sithis falls upon you."

"Mm, that's fair enough, I suppose."

He runs a gloved hand through his stringy bangs, which have come free from under his ever present cap during our scuffle. "...You make it difficult to maintain any semblance of positive emotion for you, do you know that? You're so - " He gestures vaguely, a frustrated noise escaping between clenched teeth.

"You only care now if I fail because you'll fall with me. When my life is snuffed out, yours is too."

"Let's not pretend that's only a matter of function in our Void-Bond, My Listener. You and Cicero know that this was the case long before I'd been cut from Mundus by your blade."

I blink. _Do_ I know that?

"...Fine. But promise me one thing?"

"Ooh, Promises... _Promises_!" He half-squeals, his face the picture of clear sarcasm. "The Fool of Hearts, as always, of course, will try to do his best."

I wrung my hands and forced myself to admit that this whole thing could go sour. I let out a stabilizing breath before managing to speak: "...If I'm actually out of line, if I'm _wrong_ about this thing - pull me back. There's too much at stake that I can't risk."

His face goes grim as he realizes that I mean to continue on this course of action, and that he can't really stop me. The promise of trust and duty seems to make him reconsider telling me off, and at last he seems marginally at peace with my decision.

"Of course. Cicero wouldn't have it any other way, My Listener."


	30. The First Meeting

**A/N:** _Cicero's POV;_ _Trying something a teeny bit different, for character development reasons. I hope you like it!_

* * *

The wizard extended a hand in greeting - trembling fingers shaking with nervousness, his eyes wide with open disbelief.

Yes, foolish, gaunt, unassuming Cicero is **'The Man Before -'** Why is it so hard to believe? Such a look betrayed his feelings immediately, and such blatant emotion disgusted us. He was _surprised_ \- he was - _flabbergasted_. He made no attempt to hide behind a polite mask, as nobles were wont to do.

Despicable, truly; This man who lives with his heart on an ornate sleeve!

The jester - or _I_ , rather - stared at the offending limb with great irritation and disgust; The thought of cutting it off with some obscenely large war ax, however, made us smile.

I ignored the outstretched hand and instead looked up into the face of the man who had captured My Listener's attention.

Interesting, really - despite the bare-face nakedness in his expression, there was a story there that I was actually quite surprised to find. He didn't seem her type - not that Cicero was ever really _sure_ if Ulalume even _had_ a type.

The mage is certainly a... _Handsome_ man; That much is immediately obvious upon meeting him, even to the most stupid and dull of persons - of which Cicero is clearly not. Furthermore, the man absolutely reeked of wealth and privilege. An heir to a merchant dynasty, perhaps? The orange silk robe spoke to us as much. It was too fine a fabric to be worn by a man who performed hard labor, and instead was suited to more cushioned lifestyles - ledger writing, for instance, or other assorted desk-jobs. Comfortable. She would have stolen trinkets from his pockets a few years ago, had they been strangers.

I looked at his hands to read more of his story.

They say you can tell a lot about a person by their hands, and Cicero would say that he'd have to agree.

We had a fond, gentle memory of when My Listener had once taken the jester's hands in hers and spoke poetry about the length of the fingers, the protruding knuckles, the _prettiness_ of their misshapen, spidery nature. It evoked a strong emotion deep in my chest that we were hesitant to give a name too, but such sweet words soothed some of the burn of self-loathing the jester had carried within him for years.

When we looked at the mage's hands, it was like reading a story. I saw squared, brutal things that were mostly unmarked with imperfections. A few callouses along the left palm told me he favored magic in his right - a swordsman, then; But where was his sword and armor? He was supposed to be a battlemage, so this information seemed correct - but he was currently dressed as if he were on a vacation.

Gold rings lined a few of his fingers, and one had an etching of the sun on it. I was left to ponder it's meaning. A symbol of Magnus, perhaps? The man _is_ a mage, after all...

Hm.

It didn't matter. We were willing to bet our best dagger it was all _real gold_ \- and that was the important part to pay attention to. Multiple gold rings, all sized for different fingers, and at least one with a custom engraving. There was no doubt this man was wealthy - or had been wealthy in the past - and that meant that he was literate and well-educated. Harder to manipulate because of a higher personal esteem, but not so when it came to social pressure. Nobles cared far too much about how they are perceived in public.

He's tan, with dark eyes; Clearly Nibenesian in blood - which put his likely place of origin in...Skingrad. Yes. Skingrad was the hub of the Cyrodilic wine business and was the most obvious choice for a modern merchant dynasty. The second option was textiles, but we had him pinned for a vineyard child who never crushed a grape under foot in his life. Something about him screamed 'villa-on-a-hill', though I wasn't exactly sure what that something was.

Unsurprisingly, Ula had spoken about this wizard at great length before we met him today - though not _about him_. Just...Citing all the ways she wished the jester wouldn't offend him; Though the defeated tone of her voice when she had said as much suggested she understood that he could - and more importantly, _would_ \- promise nothing.

In short: We hated the man already.

The audacity to assume Cicero _could_ be polite to this - this - _interloper_ was nothing less than an insult!

The only thing that prevented us from stabbing him then and there was the promise the jester gave to his Listener that he wouldn't. Not that he was happy about keeping this promise, no - _no_ \- but Cicero always obeyed. That was the most important thing his Listener could count on him to do.

...And perhaps she would order us to kill the wizard later, when she grew tired of him? The wait would make it all the more... _Sweeter_.

I could only hope, at least - and that was all that was keeping me going at the moment.

That wish, and the _observation_.

Reading this man also gave insight into what made The Listener tick. She clearly had a soft-spot in her heart for the man, and it was The Keeper's duty to understand how to make His Listener better.

...Marcurio, for all his pomp - seemed extremely unnerved by the jester.

This was good. Watching him gave me insight into his weaknesses and strengths - how they stacked up against ours, and what Ula could possibly see in this wretched third wheel.

It was easy to see Cicero and the wizard are as different as night and day.

The mage was built solid and precise against the jester's more willowy stature. Where the jester is sharp and gaunt, the other was chiseled. Pale. alabaster skin dotted with freckles from working only against darkness and stars - versus bronzed hues that evoked thoughts of the Niben Bay beaches and sunshine.

And even still, the mage was adept in magic versus Cicero's mastery over the physical.

Different. So different, it was hard to compare us to him, which was a mix of an annoyance and pleasure.

There was already a measure of tension between us, and Thank Sithis that there would never be any in our degrees of similarity - or rather, the lack thereof.

The mage introduced himself, then - the offered hand still hanging in between us. ' _Marcurio_ ,' he said. And I thought: 'How fitting' - an obviously weighty name, one that suggested his parents had chosen it with the hope for him to be more than - Well, whatever he was now, surely.

We introduced ourselves in kind, bowing and pointedly ignoring the hand even as it waited for us to take it. _Cicero, Fool of Hearts, Keeper of The Black Hand and recently resurrected!_ _ **Official Man-Servant and Guardsman of The Listener.**_

The jester tacked on those important bits to show he was far less expendable than the wizard was, and as a sort of soft-threat. We took the titles seriously, too. Perhaps it was posturing, pure and simple - It shamed him that he was like a dog pissing to mark his territory, but - ah, well. There was a time once, long ago, in the hazy annals of Cicero's past that the shame would have stopped him, but that was long ago. And still, clearly drawing a line there was nothing - A small, meaningless victory for one who had already lost the war.

For surely, if the mage was _here_ \- and we were going to The Sanctuary - Ula had already made up her mind. I didn't have to hide what I was, or who we were, and if The Wrath of Sithis would come upon us at least we'd go down together.

The hand still waited, hanging between us.

The Listener frowned, watching the offered hand move to wipe its palm on silk; And I applauded such a smooth recovery for someone so used to getting his way.

A handshake would suggest...Equality - a recognized fasimile of fellow humanity.

We both already knew neither saw each other in such a light. This was just the square-up, a bit of polite staging before beginning. Cicero likened it to a bow or touching hands before a fight.

And OH how Cicero _HATED_ the mage - because he had left his _post_ , let a silly little argument get in between him and his duty to protect this woman here, beside them - she, who was watching nervously from the sidelines. He had _failed_ \- and he had even been _payed_ to do it -

There was a moment of clarity, of course. Marcurio represented...A mirror: Dirty and cracked as it were, but still a reflection. It was the guilt whispering in his ear, maybe, but that was beside the point. He still felt the rage and the shame of his own sins. Hadn't Cicero failed, too? Perhaps it had been a more abstract failure, and he'd do it over again if he could - but he'd never forgive himself for making her choose. For forcing her hand.

You see, the mage didn't know you had to handle The Listener with rough hands to make her do anything, to get her to agree and to push her into where she needed to be. Had Cicero been there, he would have healed her _anyways_ \- let her scream at him the whole while, but she'd come round after the pain went away. And surely she'd have to bite her tongue and thank him for it later, too. That's what _should_ have happened - but the mage was a poncy little milk-drinking wizard who feared too much in consequences that had no weight to a woman like Ulalume.

Cicero supposed that he should be thankful that the man before him is cowardly and nervous; Perhaps we wouldn't be alive here at all had she continued down this frivolous path where he resided. She might have abandoned The Dark Brotherhood - and that was a thought too painful to dwell on.

There was hatred between us already, yes -

And there was the _tension_ \- two men meeting whose only mutual interest is a woman. A tale as old as time, and yet no foreseeable civility in any future gestures that might bring it to an end.

"...I think I'll call you...Zappy." We grinned again, fighting my urge to place a condescension upon the tone. Ula's eyes narrowed at us, but the jester ignored it - The Listener knew his game, knew us more than even I knew myself sometimes. The real fool in the room did not even pick up on this micro-conversation, and that delighted the jester.

' _Don't make fun of him,' -_ she urged quietly with her eyes,

' _I'm not! I'm being friendly!'_ \- I reply in kind, my mouth forming a grin rather than the words spoken by my gaze -

If this was to be a contest, then we already knew how to win: Push and prod and annoy until the other man's true colors showed themselves. There was an anger hidden behind his dimpled, perfect smile - an edge of rage there at the back of his eyes. I could see it, clear and dark as The Void.

This one was not _worthy_ , as _I_ had not been in life. I could tell that, already. He was too soft, somehow - too wide-eyed; He had no idea who the woman beside him really was - what she was capable of. He was infatuated with a spectre, _a lie_ \- The wizard didn't know Ula like _Cicero_ did. Not really - no, not at all.

One step out of line and Cicero would decapitate him in a heartbeat. All she had to do was say the word, and it would be done. Her wish was our command.

The mage needed to understand that. We were bound tightly, and there was no getting rid of me. He didn't seem to be a _stupid_ man, (well, perhaps so in common sense rather than academia) but Cicero was confident that if he didn't know now, one way or another -

He'd know soon enough.


	31. On The Road Again

**A/N: Cicero's POV**

* * *

"So, what happened with Byrnjolf?" When Marcurio spoke, his voice was warm but shook with nervousness. We eyed him suspiciously, daring him to step a single hair out of line.

Ula rolled her shoulders, a tic she had when she was buying time to figure out her phrasing."...I spoke with him. I told him he needs to be more mindful of the bigger picture. Delvin, despite his bellyaching, will take his place as de facto Guild Master. Brynjolf was never cut out for it anyways, and _now_ he claims he never wanted it."

"...So you had a falling out." The wizard tried to clarify. The Listener shook her head in the negative.

"There hasn't been any tension in The Guild for months, and I doubt this will cause any chaos - As long as the gold keeps flowing, that is. Delvin is already considered an authority figure, so I suspect the only thing harmed is Brynjolf's ego." She pauses. "...Though, I doubt he thinks any less of me even with this development, unfortunately."

"Ah." He glanced away, and the jester watched him carefully. He was disappointed with this outcome, that much was obvious, but why? Clearly the mage did not like Brynjolf, but it was foolish to be jealous of a man who had no sway over sweet Ula.

"..." The Listener's eyes slid briefly to my countenance, then back to Marcurio. "...Some men enjoy being commanded and yelled at, I suppose. It's not my place to judge." She muttered, though it sounded to me as if she were speaking more to herself than to the wizard.

The jester said nothing, just continued to hum a tune to himself. If that comment was supposed to be directed at us, I failed to give her the pleasure of a reaction. Was I supposed to emote? Get angry? I dared not glance at her to find out if she was disappointed or not.

"Well, I'm sure Brynjolf will cherish the memory, then." The wizard replied, "But at least you sorted all that out."

The Listener's voice was a bit tight when she spoke, and my eyes were finally drawn to her face. "Yes. Delvin was due some sort of recognition, and I hope this pleases him. He's one of few that I trust well enough."

Marcurio shifts. "...So, do you think you'll ever go back? ...To the Guild I mean, not Riften."

The jester rolled his eyes. What was with all the questions? It was annoying, and clearly putting The Listener on edge.

Ula bit her lip, quietly thinking before she spoke. "...No, doubtful. I have contacts there, and I could still use them for fencing goods or finding information, but I don't think I'll ever go back to work for them again. Not formally, at least."

"Perhaps that is for the best."

"It is," We interjected, hoping to derail the conversation entirely. The wizard became unnerved all over again, his mouth clamping shut with such speed that it was a wonder that he did it without magic.

I did so _revel_ in his visceral terror. When he looked at us, it was always from the corner of his eye. Whenever we spoke, the lines of his body tensed like a statue while he seemed to listen intently - as if the jester would threaten him any moment and he wanted to be sure of the wording.

 _Fear is almost the same as respect._

We glanced at him lackadaisically, daring him to challenge us or say anything - but he didn't. He hadn't spoken directly to Cicero since he introduced himself, and it was starting to move from curious to wonderously amusing. The mage acted like we didn't even exist!

It was high time he started to interact.

We waited a few long moments in the uncomfortable silence before attempting the first run.

"Zappy," The jester drawled, "Ula told Cicero that you're Nibenesian. From whereabouts do you hail from, exactly?"

Ula frowned, casting us a look. I gave her an innocent smile in hopes to placate her, so that she wouldn't call us out on our game.

"..."The mage was clearly uncomfortable, squirming in his skin as we walked at a lazy pace beside him. The jester moved in closer, for the purpose of making that discomfort worse. "...I hail from Skingrad." He muttered after a few moments.

"Oh? _Fancy~_ " I purred, "Skingrad is lovely in the summer, I hear. Cicero's never been, personally - too expensive, you see; But he's tasted the wine that comes from there. Could never afford it, of course - but I took it from a dead-man's cellar, once! It was very sweet."

"Ah...Yes. Cyrodilic wine tends to be rather sweet, especially if it comes from the Niben Bay area."

"So you know much of wine and the wine business, then, yes?" The jester pressed, which made Marcurio clam up a bit more.

"...Well, I know some." The wizard smiled nervously, "-Growing up in Skingrad makes it difficult not to learn a few bits and bobs."

I had him right where I wanted him, squirming in my hands. "...And why leave such an idilic life for a place like Riften, hm?"

"That's enough." Ula murmured, and the ever obediant jester backed off a bit. It made me gnash my teeth and I lurched forward slightly, trying to fight against that will.

"No, it's fine." Marc spoke, a bit too quickly for my taste - "And to answer your question, I...Got bored."

The jester grinned sharply, predatory instincts taking over. Ah, there he was - Rising up to the challenge, right were we wanted him - _finally_ \- We pounced quickly, remarking: "Hmm! What privilege you must have had, to have gotten bored enough to stoop down into the filth of us commoners."

This clearly incited some hidden, latent violence in the wizard because his expression immediately darkened. "Oh? And you presume to know so much about me?"

"I know you, Zappy. Cicero knows your kind - your _ilk_ , your _creed_ , your _type_ \- what have you - There is no shame in being born into money, of course; It's what one does in spite of it that matters. But - ah, silly Cicero, I forget! You gambled your fortune and spent the rest on cheap mead!"

The mage was obviously taken aback, eyes wide with disbelief at the jester's boldness. It pleased me to watch his expression, the way his mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish on the water's edge. I wanted him to thrash, to get angry - But this hadn't been enough.

He recovered, somewhat, and smirked.

The smirk irked us - A dimple formed in his tan cheek, threatening to show the straight white teeth behind the veil of his thin lips. His handsomness was almost mocking - a taunt, a cheat.

I frowned.

"...I see. You _think_ you know me, and perhaps you know _of_ me - but I am not the sum of my actions, nor am I the sum of my mistakes. How unfortunate you see the world in such a way. But - yes, I do see."

I would not be painted in such a light, especially not so by my own words. I decided to change the subject.

"And _what_ is it that you see, wizard?"

He ponders for a moment, and I'm left with the desire to glance at Ula and see how she's processing this, but I don't dare look her in the face. Cicero is not a stupid man - eye contact would throw her into action rather than observation, and it was surely a wonder that she hadn't stepped in to stop our display already.

The wizard shakes his head, as if to dismiss the question altogether. He steps closer to us, into the jester's personal space. He smiles. "You know, I'm not afraid of you."

It's all posturing, really. Posing to be the masculine, heroic counterpart against Cicero's dark manipulations. I think he hopes to impress The Listener, but to do so is a Fools Errand - The irony is not lost to me, but the jester is too busy with readying a reply to process the amusement. Ula cares not for what he thinks, and a puffed out chest and an important looking smile will not sway her to swoon.

That is what I tell myself, and what I tell The Laughter to soothe the rage, but The Listener has surprised me before. Instead of dwelling, I do what I do best: Find a soft spot in armor and attack with the sharpest weapon available to me.

Let's take his hubris and destroy it. That ego of his must be exhausting to carry around!

I force the jester to calm down, retreat a bit as I take control for a moment, settling uneasily but seamlessly into the places he usually occupies. The lines of our body settle, as I don't want the mage to mistake our common bounciness and tics as nervousness. He also sobers a bit, recognizing the sudden shift in the air.

I cock my head to one side, trying to really get a good look at him, squinting as if it will help me make out the shape of the Nibenesian better. He seems slightly unnerved again as the silence stretches on, as the eye contact doesn't waver.

And then I say two words that would haunt him, make him question his hubris - make him understand how well I can see into his eyes, how well I can read him - make it color the rest of our future interactions with a doubtful cast of angry red threat.

 ** _"...Aren't you?"_**

The confident mask flickers, expression twitching into displeasure that only I can see. His back has been turned to Ula since he approached me, but I can see the clear disdain - the clear doubt behind his eyes.

I hope he sees the words written on my face, hears them between the syllables: He damn well should be afraid of me.

How...Simple - no - how _idiotic_ this man is to think this is about posturing for a woman! Ulalume is not just some _woman_ \- she is not a _maiden_ awaiting an outstretched hand to whisk her away, she is not a _prize_ to be won and we are not locked in a contest - Cicero is _hers_ by The Void, By Sithis, by Mother's will - but she is not his - not _ours_ -

But _I_ belong here, and _he_ does not - he is a _guest_.

In a way, this goes deeper, our interaction. On the surface, it's absolutely about Ulalume - but when you get right down to it, it's simply a measurement; A way to see what the other is made of.

And I am both delighted and disappointed. Marcurio is no sparring partner, he is no powerful effigy I must knock down - truly, he is not even fit for wordplay! If I could get away with it, I would demolish the man with nary a sentence and a gesture.

I was proud of myself, however, for having easily wrestled the control of the conversation into my favor with two simple words; And yet Ulalume stole all the progress by putting her foot down.

"That's enough." She spoke, her voice forceful. The wizard seemed to snap out of a reverie, and the jester simply shot her an innocent smile.

"Listener! I'm only having a bit of fun with my new friend, Zappy. No need to get upset!" I raise my hands in a surrendering gesture, hoping the submissive body language would stamp out any fury she had before it was actualized. It didn't work.

She glared at us, a searing stare that would have struck fear in any other man. Something in me bristled and swooned, unsure of which emotion to feel first. Icy blue eyes promised pain, promised blood and violence if Cicero did not behave.

" _Enough_." She repeated. The mage looked at her, half offended and half relieved.

"-It's fine," He sputtered -

She whirled around. "Oh, no - Make no mistake, I'm not trying to coddle or shield you - I'm just tired of all this nonsense. Be civil, or don't speak to each other at all!"

"And just how does The Listener expect Cicero to be entertained for this long trip if he can't even _speak_!?" The jester whined, pressing himself back into the spaces he usually occupied.

"Do what you always do: Sing, hum, or talk to yourself." She shot back.

We said nothing, just respectfully dropped the subject altogether. It was better that way. I had every intention of picking up where Marcurio and I left off - later.

There was a measure of awkward silence that followed after. As a rule, I don't mind it, but the jester finds it simply intolerable. In fact, he found it so intolerable that he felt as though he were a kettle full of steam and that it would make him scream at any moment.

So he did what he thought was the better alternative - he started to laugh.

The wizard glanced over at us in undisguised horror and confusion as the jester bit back an anxious giggle, hissing through his teeth. I clamped my jaw around it, but the jester resisted.

The Laughter filled the Silence - that's just how it was.

* * *

And so it was that we traveled like this for a long measure or so, until the afternoon began to wane and a courier came upon us on the road.

He was a thin and nervous nord, with a measure of haggardness to his frame that suggested he'd been on the road for a while. I was on guard, drawing close to Ula; Protecting her from harm was my duty.

"Are you uh," The courier squints at the order in his hand, "...Eulalie? That _is_ how you say that, right?"

Ula falters for a bit, tucking a strand of her curly hair behind her ear. Her face reveals a measure of surprise at hearing this particular name, but she stifles the expression."Um, yes. Eulalie. That's me."

I caught myself giving her an inquisitive look and quickly shoved the curiosity away. That was The Listener's business, and if she had wanted me to know about her other names - like her Lady Ligeia persona from The College of Winterhold - she would have told me about them.

The Nord seemed absolutely relieved. "Oh, good. I have a letter for you. Your hands only! It's of some importance, too -" Here he leans in a bit closer to her and I find my fingers itching to reach for the jester's dagger. "...From a Jarl." He eyes us and Marcurio with some suspicion, as if we were some potential letter-stealing criminals. The jester was amused by this, as he was amused by a great many things, and grinned at the anxious man, who found my reaction a reason to be even more on guard.

"Oh?" Ula spoke, confusion clear in her voice.

"Mm-hmm, that's what the order says. It's funny, I was actually told to find you in _Whiterun_ , but anyone I asked said they hadn't seen you in a good many weeks. So! I set off to find you in one of the other Holds. I'm so glad I happened upon you on the road! I'd already been to a few, and -"

"- I actually went on vacation, you see. It was on a whim, which is why no one has heard from me!" She smiled prettily as the courier handed her the letter, nodding his head in understanding. "Just on my way back now, in fact. Sorry for the trouble."

My heart fluttered. She was so good at deflecting, so good at pretending to be an unseeming maiden. The way her cheeks dimpled made The Laughter feel like it was far too heavy and wide in my chest and the jester actually had enough sense to gnash his teeth and bite his tongue to keep from letting it escape.

"No trouble, ma'am. Such is my job." He smiled back at her and we watched him carefully, unblinking. Daring him to draw closer. My fingers gripped the dagger's hilt, playing it off as if I were simply resting my hands on my hips.

The courier moved to take his leave, unknowing of just how close he was to being stabbed."Well, I have to get going - other deliveries to handle!" He bade us a quick and polite farewell and moved along the path. Ula waited until he was out of earshot before opening the parchment.

"What is it?" Marcurio asked before she even had time to read the damn thing. She held her finger up to silence him, and he was taken aback by her blatant force of command. I shot him an amused look, which didn't help his mood.

She glanced up at us, a look of hesitation crossing her features. "...The Jarl of Falkreath wants to speak with me, heard I could be...Of use to him, from The Guild. I'm not entirely sure I like the sound of that."

"...So, it's like a job?" The wizard tried to clarify, like an idiot.

"I guess?" Her shoulder rose and fell with a small shrug. "Someone at The Guild must have had a contact who heard the Jarl was looking for someone, and they must have recommended me. I'd heard that this Jarl was doing some shady dealings, so it isn't completely out of left-field, but it is odd that they gave him my name."

"...Yeah, that name..." Marcurio mused, "Is that one of your aliases?"

"...Sort of. It's the one I used for more 'public' business ventures in The Guild, as a fake name makes it harder to be caught. Can't be too careful - clients could always be guardsmen set to gather incriminating evidence." She sighed. "...I appreciate whoever sent the Jarl this tip by using the fake name, but still. Now? This is not...A good time..."

"...Is Ula going to go?" The jester asked, "I thought we were headed home? Didn't you just say you weren't going to to Guild work anymore, My Listener?"

She did that thing where she bites her lip, and my eyes were drawn to the gesture."...I mean, I can't not go - it's a _Jarl._ He'll track me down, eventually. And I don't want him prying too hard. I should probably see what he wants."

I stopped myself from groaning out loud, but the jester still rolled his eyes. "My Listener, don't we have this... _Business_ to attend to?" I motioned to the mage, who frowned at me. "Cicero thinks we should _really_ make haste -"

"Of course, we'll just have to make a detour to Falkreath first. It shouldn't take long." Ula spoke with an air of finality -

And all Cicero could do was obey.

* * *

 **A/N:** **So! I was thinking about maybe making a discord server to talk about Elder Scrolls stuff and maybe have a channel on the server to specifically talk about fanfics and writing? I just really like talking about Ula and other people's Dragonborns...And lore just in general. If anyone might be interested in that sort of thing, let me know via PM or comment. It probably won't be a big thing, but I am pretty active on there and I love hearing other people's headcanons and stuff like that!**


	32. Falkreath

Falkreath felt like home.

Everytime I found myself here it always left me reeling with the uncomfortable notion of being welcomed back to a place I belonged.

...For what it's worth, Falkreath is saturated in Death.

From the names of the shops to the ever expanding cemetery, Falkreath is thick with the reminder of mortality. It was a comfort to be surrounded by people who felt that Death was simply a destination rather than an unwelcome spectre; normal people who saw the world as I began to, so long ago.

For a long time, I felt Death chase me - pursue me, and I had been _afraid_.

From childhood's hour, it was around every corner: A friendly, smiling man beckoning into an alley-way with the promise of sweets for a pretty girl; An out-of-control carriage barreling down the cobbled streets of the city, A sword swung too near to a leg. The Penitus Oculatus. Alduin.

When I became desensitized to the threat of Death, it was only then that I truly realized it's intention.

Death is a lonely thing, constantly seeking company. When I became it's agent, I fed it's needs well; Perhaps in an attempt to soothe and sate it's desires at first, to stave off my own fate. Growing up made me understand that Death is insatiable, and that one day I too will succumb to its embrace - but not to be afraid. It is a companion, an old friend.

Yes. Death and I have been intimate for a long time now, and the reaching talons I once feared have now become a comforting caress.

Coming to Falkreath often reminded me that here - in this town among the tall trees and wildflowers: Death lurks always in places full of life.

Broken headstones stuck out from the ground like crooked teeth against the fauna, the open air crypt a comforting sight against the Halls of The Dead the Nords tended to favor. Necropolises were also rather common in the Cyrod, but small villages and towns often had cemeteries like this one - out in the open air, with markers to denote where the dead had been buried. To me, the Nord's preference to 'lock up the dead' was odd, to keep them in tightly packed chambers surrounded by cold stone. It was stifling, and alien, almost more so than the Dunmer's want to mix their ancestors' ashes with one another in a big, sanctified heap.

Walking among the dead and reading their stories summarized on their stones left me feeling at peace. It was especially true here, as the cemetery in Falkreath is celebrated more as a sort of visitor's park, which kept the grounds-keepers busy and the whole area manicured, and the natural flora blooming well into the year.

Deathbells and bunches of Nightshade lined the gravel pathways - and I admit I was a bit excited at the prospect of seeing these sights for myself once more. They had always been my favorite flowers, ever since I could remember. What little interest I had in alchemy always lead back to Deathcraft, and I was always fascinated by the idea that plants so beautiful could be so deadly.

I likened myself after such a nature, and I like to think I've done particularly well.

' _...Little Deathbell - '_

* * *

" -Ula - My Listener?"

I was snapped free of my reverie and tried to hide how startled I was by the sudden pressing voice of The Keeper. I quickly recovered and moved my gaze to the flash of red and velvet beside me. "Hm? Sorry."

The jester pointed with his chin in the direction in front of us. "A guardsman." I swiveled my head to look, and indeed a guard was approaching us. I became wary but initially thought little of it.

The guard was clearly a woman, with a blond braid thrown carelessly over her shoulder, peeking out from under the covered helm that was typical of a guard's uniform. She moved toward us at a leisurely pace, not bothering to put her hand on her weapon, and this made me a measure more relaxed. Clearly, we weren't being interrogated or denied entry.

"Have you seen a dog on your way?" The woman asked, voice thick with a typical Nordic accent, peering around us as if the dog would materialize straight from the ground. "Someone lost one in town - a big gray mutt?" She gestured with her hand the approximate size of the beast, drawing a short line just above her knee.

I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts. This was so out of the realm of possibilities I had in mind for what she might be approaching us for, that it took me a moment to compose myself enough to answer her.

"...Uh, no, we haven't seen any dogs. Evidence of wolves, though, along the main road. Might wanna clear those out for caravans and tradesmen." I shot her a placating smile, trying to appear like a run-of-the-mill traveler. The guard nodded, clearly disappointed in my answer.

"Ah. Yes, we know about the wolves. Thanks for telling us, though. In any case, if you see the dog - the blacksmith in town is offering a reward for it. Told us to keep an eye out and ask travelers about it. His name's Lod, if you happen to find the silly beast." She made a gesture with her hand. "Anyways, thank you for your time. Welcome to Falkreath." She stepped back to her post and shot us a pretty smile as we approached the gate, and she gave us another nod as we went through.

A reward? For a dog? _Really?_ Hah! Nords and their dogs. Well, septims were septims - and if we happened to see a dog I'd be sure to pass along word to the blacksmith for some easy coin.

I glanced at my company, one of which was pouting - (Cicero, of course,) and the other - who was simply looking nervously around at all the death-themed signage.

"A bit bleak here, hm?" Marcurio muttered, as if my attention warranted an immediate comment. "With all the fog and...Shadows...And...Things."

"I find it comforting." I said.

"...Of course you do." The wizard mumbled back, frowning. "I'm not surprised."

" _Cicero_ finds Falkreath lovely, My Listener." The red-head gushed, and I found myself rolling my eyes. What a suck-up. He wasn't really like this a whole lot before - not unless he was in a particular mood - and I found it to be a tad annoying. His sentiment probably stemmed from the fact that this is the hold Astrid died in, though, and it was a bonus that he was getting under my skin. It was definitely punishment for bringing Marcurio with us.

Marcurio shot the jester a dirty look, and perhaps I wasn't supposed to see it - but I caught it from the corner of my eye.

As the Khajiit would say when their kittens grew too rowdy: _I need a break._

"As beautiful as it is, we shouldn't dally. The Jarl is expecting me. If you want, you two can go to the shops for supplies for whatever silly task he's going to have me do."

"Curious Cicero wants to know what The Jarl wants Ula to do. He'll go with you." I shot him a bit of a 'no, please' look but he just smiled widely at me. This prompted Marcurio to speak up.

"I'd like to know too."

"It's not like you won't find out - " I interjected, "Besides, it would be a more valuable use of our time if we all split up. I have a list of things I need to get if it's anything like the tasks people usually send me on."

 _Aha_. Now they were stuck between wanting to seem useful, and staying with me. I didn't care if _one_ stayed, but I desperately needed a break from their passive aggressiveness against each other - if I didn't get one soon, someone was going to get _Fus_ 'd into a river.

They both stood there, contemplating. Cicero, ever the opportunist, spoke first.

"In that case - _normally_ Cicero would be _delighted_ to help - but as _Keeper_ , I'm afraid Cicero will have to stay by Ula's side; You know, in case this whole Jarl thing is a ruse to capture poor, sweet Ula. Perhaps _Zappy_ should be the one to - "

"Now now, you're forgettting that _I'm_ a trained battlemage soldier - "

"But it's _expressly_ Cicero's _job_ to protect Ula - "

This was already tiring.

"Enough! By Sithis, you two are _annoying!_ " I put my hands on my hips. "While that is certaintly a clever argument, Keeper, you must remember that The Jarl _knows_ I'm a criminal, used my fence contacts to reach me, _and_ needs me to take care of a problem under-the-table. It's unlikely that he would set this up _only_ to catch me, when he'd already been in contact with a whole _network_ of criminals."

The red-head frowned, casting me a look of displeasure. "...True."

I calmed myself some before I spoke again, saying: "Why don't you _both_ go to the shops _separately_? By the time I get out of the meeting with The Jarl, you should be finishing up. We'll meet in front of The Dead Man's Drink, okay?"

"...Oh, very well - But make it quick." Marcuio mumbled, clearly defeated. I quickly dug around in my pack for a piece of parchment and something to write with, then quickly scribbled two separate lists with different things on them, ensuring that it would be unlikely that they crossed paths and burned the whole town down in a stupid argument.

"Here." I gave a list to Marcurio first. "And...Thank you." I forced myself to say.

Marcurio looked up and searched my face for a moment before taking the list from my hands. "...Yeah, whatever." And with that, he trudged off dejectedly. I realized in that moment that perhaps they might try to make a contest over who could get back first - but hoped that they weren't _so_ childish. I wouldn't hold my breath over it, though.

I turned to Cicero.

"And for you." I held the scrap of paper out to the jester. He was clearly upset with this turn of events, but I already saw those damn gears working in his head of how to spin this in his favor. Before he grabbed the paper, I snatched it back. "I'm sure you'll be fine by yourself, correct? I can trust you to behave?" I counted off on my fingers the rules he was to follow while we were here: "- No stabbing the civilians, be on your best behavior, and - for the love of Sithis, _stop antagonizing Marcurio_."

"Cicero is not a _child_ , Listener. And - _antagonizing_?" He put his hand to his chest in an exaggerated gesture of mock surprise and dismay. "Innocent Cicero is doing nothing of the sort! The man practically victimizes _himself!_ " He scoffed. "Let's just try not to dally, My Listener. The sooner we get to Dawnstar, the better."

"The sooner we can get rid of Marcurio, you mean."

"That too." He grinned, but his heart wasn't all the way into it. He seemed to notice that I noticed, and it faded quickly. "Now, My Listener, may I please have my list?" He gestured with an open palm, and I handed it to him with some hesitation. He took it quickly and skipped off in the direction of the market. I watched him for a little bit to make sure he actually did as he was told, then turned towards the Jarl's Longhouse and made my way inside.

I was immediately accosted as soon as I stepped foot into the interior by a large man who was, at a glance, The Jarl's housecarl. "What business do you have with the Jarl, Imperial?" He pressed a steel clad arm into my chest.

"I was told he wanted to see me." I said, trying to maintain a measure of politeness. Internally, I was seething. _How dare he touch me?_

"Helvard, let the woman in." A voice spoke from deeper within the room. I couldn't see over the big Nord, but if I had to wager a guess it was The Jarl. The man moved from my personal space and followed me close like a shadow as I approached the man sitting in a throne. "Eulalie, I presume?"

"Yes, my Jarl." I curtsied.

"I am Siddgeir, Jarl of Falkreath. I'm glad my letter was recieved well. I hear your a woman who can...Handle certain problems?"

"Perhaps." I answered. "What is it that you need done?" He leaned on one elbow, resting his face in his palm - the picture of absolute boredom.

"Well, you see, Eulalie, I've got a problem. A problem with _bandits_ , but it's not your run-of-the-mill issue. You see, I had a deal with them: They don't hit traders coming _out_ of Falkreath, and I _don't_ send someone to kill them - plus a cut of their profits as a price for my mercy."

"I see."

"A simple arrangement, yes? However, lately they've been giving me excuses - ' _B-b-but Jarl, the War! We haven't gotten much profit with the lack of traders and travelers! We have to feed ourselves!'_ \- Hmph. It's not that I need the coin, you see, it's a show of force."

"Of course."

He leaned forward in his throne, feeling the need to _explain himself_ to me - as if it mattered at all."...If they think they can disrespect me by cutting me out of the profits entirely, they are no longer useful to me. The deal is null since they didn't keep their end."

"Understandable." He blinked, as if this were not quite the level-headed response he had expected.

"...Yes, well. Here's the situation: I need _you_ to dispose of this group entirely. I assume you can undertake such a task?"

"Where am I headed?"

He leaned back."Go to Knifepoint Ridge, just northwest of here. It's rather easy to find if you know what you're looking for; Go along the north main road until you come to the fork, take the west road until you come upon a bridge - then head directly west, off the road."

"Understood."

"If you do this in a timely and quiet fashion, I will reward you when you return. Coin, _of course,_ but I also might be interested in giving you a permanent position in my court to specifically handle...Infestations like this. How does that sound?"

"Oh, well, I'll do the job of course - but - " I sputtered.

He clapped his hands together and grinned. "Splendid! Do be on your way then." The jarl then ushered me out before I could refuse the court position. The housecarl man-handled me out of the building and tossed me off the steps. I landed on my feet and glared at him, shrugging his massive hand off my arm.

"I can walk, you know!" In response, Helvard grimaced.

"Don't you have a job to do? Instead of running your mouth, Why don't you be a good little girl and do as the Jarl says?" I immediately bristled. If he knew I was The Dragonborn, he wouldn't talk to me that way.

"Funny, coming from the man who _should_ be doing this job. I guess the Jarl didn't trust you enough not to die to some unorganized, untrained bandits."

"On the contrary, _Imperial_ \- " He spat, "I'm too _valuable_ of a person to _waste my time_ doing such a menial and simple task."

I drew closer to him, glaring up into his face. "Yeah, well - "

"-Cicero thinks that you should pick on someone your own size; Like a bear, perhaps, or a mammoth." I whirled around and saw the jester looking particularly unamused, the supplies I'd sent him to get slung lackadaisically over his shoulder.

"I have this." I told him, turning back to Halvard, who was now focused on the _other_ Imperial on The Jarl's doorstep.

"Oh, I know." The red-head replied cooly, "But Cicero saw an opportunity to insult someone and - well, you know me! I just couldn't resist."

I made a rude gesture at the housecarl and backed away. "This isn't over." He scoffed at me and went back into the longhouse with nary a glance. Silence reigned between the jester and I as we stared at the door, then the Colovian cleared his throat.

"...So, causing trouble already, My Listener? It isn't like you to draw attention to yourself."

"No trouble, Keeper - I'm used to being underestimated. That housecarl will get what's coming to him, one way or another...When he least expects it!"

The jester gives me a half-smile. "I'm sincerely looking forward to it. But for now, curious Cicero is eager to find out what task the Jarl has for our Listener."

I feel myself relax a little, refocusing my energy into making a coherent sentence."Oh, yes. That. ...Well, I'm afraid it's nothing interesting. The same old same old: I have a job killing bandits - we have to make sure _all_ of them die, but that's nothing special. Jarl Siddgeir seems to think this is different than any other bounty, but I know better. The circumstances or _why's_ never matter, so long as they die."

"Too true. It sounds easy enough, at least."I fixed him in a stare, which made him squirm slightly.

"...Hey, why did you come here rather than wait for me by The Dead Man's Drink like I asked? Not that I particularly mind, but it's not like you to forget something like that." He shuffled a bit, averting his eyes.

"...Well, Cicero saw that wizard waiting there and decided Ulalume would prefer it if he and I were not alone together. I'm not sure if Cicero could abide by that 'No-Stabbing-Civilians' rule that you gave him."

I put my hands on my hips. "Uh-huh, and you wanted to piss him off by showing up with me, right?" He shuffled again and spoke quickly:

"...The mage is an obedient one, though unbound to command. Doesn't Ula find that curious? Cicero doesn't know what to make of it."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Perhaps I am, but the question remains unanswered."

I grit my teeth. He knows I can't just back down from a blatant challenge like that. "...It's self-serving - just as you are." This makes the jester backpedal, sputtering a bit. I've called him out directly and he must not have been expecting this.

"I - I - I am the _Keeper_ , it's my duty to be obedient!"

"Hm." I stare harder, crossing my arms over my chest. He fumbles a bit, clearly nervous under my scrutinizing gaze. I know he can't help but be honest with me, sometimes, even it it's a truth wrapped in more lies.

"...If it happens to work in Cicero's favor occasionally, then so be it. I am under no illusion that _favoritism_ exists in your vocabulary, My Listener, as perhaps the wizard thinks. I, too, am defined by my actions, am I not?"

"Debateable." I answered.

"Oh?" He asked, gaze fixing into my own. Now we were posturing, but I was used to it. We both knew I couldn't leave the conversation as is.

"I know that you occasionally do things for reasons other than your own, and this includes rationalizations and justifications of certain thoughts and patterns. You do things as a means to an end, sometimes, though you might not actually _want_ to do them. Those actions in particular don't count. Not that I often know which is which."

His expression shifts ever so slightly, but then the mask is fixed and he smiles.

"My Listener, do you really think such things of silly, foolish Cicero? Do you think he has enough foresight or capacity to truly manipulate events and actions to cast himself in a favorable light?" We lock eyes, and I know I don't need to answer him. He can see it in my face, and there are no words to share.

"Keeper."

"Yes, My Listener?"

"Let's get the mage, and then head out."

He smiles. "Of course, My Listener. Right away."


	33. Knifepoint Ridge

**A/N: Terribly sorry about the delay; I had some family emergencies that took precedence over writing.**

* * *

 **Marcurio's POV:**

I often find myself thinking that perhaps I've made a grave error.

When I agreed to join Ulalume once more, I had some expectation that I'd be treated like a third wheel, of course - not to this extent.

However, my burning curiosity about who _the jester_ is and the realization of what profound luck I must possess to have lived to meet not one - but _two_ Dark Brotherhood assassins and _lived_ (...so far) is too great of a conundrum; It far outweighs any discomfort I feel in the situation I find myself in. I'm left constantly debating weather or not my natural inclination towards curiosity and satiating my need for answers has gotten out of hand.

On one side, there is the very real fact that I'm now privy to an organization that has been largely thought not to exist; The other is that I'm personally _miserable_ , and any secrets I discover must be kept to myself - or Death is surely the consequence.

The duality of my current existence is one that plagues me, as I find myself pondering it once more in this moment.

I am certain of two things, however, and certainty is always comforting.

Firstly: Ulalume is most certaintly _not_ a fever dream I'd thought up many months ago.

Our time of seperation left me wondering if I had imagined the whole adventure to give me a much needed break from the reality of my situation in Riften, fueled by cheap mead and tasteless tavern food. She _is_ real, and most assuredly just as beautiful and cold as I remembered.

Second: I completely and utterly _hate_ the jester, despite knowing next to nothing about the man.

There was an immediate hostility between us since the moment we met, and it grew ever steadily by the second. Something about the jester grated on my nerves, even when he wasn't speaking. The man could _breathe_ in my direction and I was already half-seething - nevermind when he was actually _actively_ trying to antagonize me.

The way to Knifepoint Ridge was not far or perilous, and so we three set out at a leisurely pace. It was already mid-afternoon, and Ula had explained that she wanted to complete the Jarl's mission early in the morning the next day, while the bandits were still hung-over and mostly armorless. It was a clever plan, I admit, but I was wary of being within one-hundred measures of Cicero while I tried to sleep. The past few times left me with restless dreams and whole hours under the stars where I could not find it in me to close my eyes.

It's not quite that I'm afraid of the man - no, of _course not_ \- it's just that he strikes me as rather...Odd.

No, that's not the right word.

He strikes me as rather _creepy_ \- eerie, perhaps? There's just...Something not right about the jester that incites a flight-or-fight response in me every time we lock eyes. He's _wrong_ somehow, and it's a very strange feeling.

Perhaps it's my magical sensitivity picking up on the necromancy spell that's keeping him alive, or perhaps it's...Something else. I'd be lying if I said that I had no interest in what sort of process had been created by Ula in order to do such an impossible feat, but if there's anything to be garnered from how tight-lipped she'd been about the whole 'thrall' thing, it's that she _really_ didn't want to talk about it.

I wondered at the events that would place these two at odds, and the more I think of it the more wild the scenarios become. I doubt I'd ever know the full story, but half the fun was thinking up strange things. There was a tangible closeness there that I found hard to believe could be severed by anything less than tragedy - though, I supposed, the life Ula lead was often filled with drama and death that it was likely this was exactly the case.

It was disheartening to see that Ula had a very real care for this horrible, strange man a sort of softness she tried to hide -

\- and all at once I recognized that _he_ was the 'Friend' she'd talked about a few times. I had told her once that if he'd betrayed her that it meant he was no friend in the first place, and yet I find myself recognizing that there is _something_ going on between them.

There was a measure of intimacy I found I disliked immensely but had no room to speak about; No platform to rage at the lingering stares or the unnecessary pet-names the jester seemed to delight in calling Ula.

When the evening encroached upon us, we decided to make camp just west of the edge of a small pond called Evergreen Grove, which was due east of Knifepoint Ridge and within walking distance to a Dragon Mound. Ula offhandedly said she'd already slain the beast buried there.

It was actually a rather nice spot, except for the ruined ancient Nordic altar of sacrifice jutting up from center of the pond. There was a small stream-fed waterfall that made a pleasant noise, however, which made up for the garish and frankly quite barbaric reminder of the savagery of the ancient Nordic peoples.

We settled in rather quickly, and after a brief discussion about what the next morning would hold - I was left to my own devices. I busied myself with making a campfire, and I caught Ula watching as I ignited the dry wood with a wave of my hand.

She frowned slightly, but then looked up into my face with a sort of embarrassed or apologetic expression - sometimes it was hard to read her features, but I was certain it wasn't a negative emotion.

I wanted to talk to her about where exactly we stood with one another so badly, but I was never afforded alone time with her. Cicero made sure of that. He took his 'protection' job seriously, which was laughable because the man looked like the wind could blow him away if a gust came through just right.

* * *

The shenanigans started rather late in the evening.

I had lost track of the jester during my little wood-gathering adventure, and it seemed that Ula had, too.

She was sitting in the shade of a tree when she asked me where he went; I noticed she had a barely concealed measure of trepidation in her voice and I found myself feeling anxious immediately. But alas, I was not left with the anxiety for long as he appeared - upside-down, mind you - hanging from a branch of the tree.

"Here I am, Listener!" The jester cheerfully greeted Ula, who seemed surprised. "Oh! Cicero didn't mean to scare you, but I _was_ here first, you know."

"What are you doing up there?" She wondered, peering into his subtly painted face with unmasked curiosity.

"Oh just... _Hanging around_ \- " He joked, and I grit my teeth against the way she stifled an embarrassed laugh. The man absolutely beamed - and now I was irritated that his stupid cap stayed perfectly on his head. The bells jingled as he twisted his body so that he could remove himself from his perch, and I was dismayed that he landed perfectly on his feet.

"Even for you, that was poor." Ula mumbled.

"Perhaps _these_ will ease your disappointment?" The Colovian did some sort of weird gesture with his hands, and suddenly there appeared a small cluster of Deathbells clutched in his fist.

I rolled my eyes.

How distasteful, this sort of fake talent. Magic was _magic_ , and that sort of little parlor trick bastardized Illusionists' art-form by making it about misdirection rather than arcane skill.

A blink-and-you'd-miss-it expression of awe and delight formed across Ula's features, and it left me with a sour stomach.

...She...Liked that?

...Why hadn't I thought about impressing her with stupid things like that?!

"These? Soothe _my_ disappointment? Absolutely not," She said, a smirk turning the corners of her mouth up, "Though it does soothe the pain of _second-hand embarrassment_ a little. You were never any good at jokes, Keeper."

He sniffles exaggeratedly, as if he's entirely broken up by this revelation - he bows as she takes the makeshift bouquet of deadly flowers from his grasp, and he says: "Perhaps that is Cicero's curse. Always a jester, never a joker." She carefully places the bundle on her lap, so as to not disturb the arrangement, and looks up at him.

"Now, now. Practice _does_ make perfect - That's what Lucien always tells me."

I blinked. Who in Oblivion was Lucien?

I fidgeted awkwardly, sort of wishing I had a way to worm myself into the conversation. I was generally adept at this sort of thing, but my mouth felt too dry and my tongue felt too heavy.

"Wise words, My Listener." The jester replied, his grin reaching all the way his eyes. "Wise words indeed. Cicero supposes you'll have to suffer through a great deal many more bad jokes until he gets better."

She stifles a laugh behind her dainty, pale hand: "I'm cringing already at the prospect."

* * *

Since we were in an unfortified camp with nary any natural cover near a known bandit encampment, I offered to take first watch shift while everyone slept - And was dismayed to discover that the jester did not want to sleep. He had 'generously' - and I say that with extreme doubt and much suspicion - offered to take my place, citing that he would wake me for my turn.

I found it dubious that he would even wake me, for the simple reason that he could say I was useless later on.

So it was that I stubbornly stayed awake keeping watch, even while there was someone else alert.

We did not speak at all for at least a good hour, and I felt myself grow a fraction more comfortable in the jester's ever looming presence. It was around the middle of the second hour after Ula went to bed and the night was well and truly dark when the jester finally spoke, and dread filled my very being.

"Zappy," He drawled in his nasal tone, suddenly beside me. He scooted into my personal space on the makeshift bench I had made out of a fallen log, our knees nearly knocking together. "Tell me something, now that Ula is _actually_ asleep." I glanced in the direction of her tent. How did he know she hadn't been sleeping this entire time?

It was difficult to back down to the challenge in his voice, and I didn't care to prevent myself from giving into the temptation. "...What is it that you want to know?" He fixed me in a look, half-lidded eyes still shining eerily in the dim light of the dying fire.

"Why did you agree to come with us?"

So he was being forthright. I expected it wouldn't last, however. "Well, Ula asked me to."

His eyebrows shot up in an expression that seemed to almost _mock_ confusion:"So you just said yes?"

"...That's right." I peered at him more closely. "...Why?" His gaze shifts away, and he lets his left shoulder rise and fall.

"...Cicero was just curious, that's all."

I shift on the log. "...Alright, so it's my turn, then."

"Is it?" He looks at me when he says this, but there's an odd sort of glazed look he has plastered across his features.

"What exactly goes on between you two?" I realize how that sounds, so I quickly remedy that by being a bit more specific, saying: "...I confess that I don't really understand the nature of your relationship, and as an academic - I'm naturally curious."

He snaps to attention. "Hmm? Whatever do you mean?"

"You and Ula." He glances away rather noticeably, so I press a bit more."I know something happened between you in the past - something... _Bad_ , but I don't know what it was. All I know is that you had a falling out as a result of it."

His mouth pulls into a frown."...Cicero is not at liberty to say, especially if she didn't feel comfortable sharing that information with you herself."

I'm disappointed and a little frustrated, but I take the time to gather myself before I reply to him."...Fair enough. I'll try something else. How did you become her bodyguard? Ula doesn't seem like the kind of woman who needs something like that. A magic-adept _partner_ , perhaps, but not a protector." He casts me a look again, and I admit it was a hollow victory to needle him so obtusely. The reward was short-lived but made me smirk all the same.

"Those circumstances are also quite hush-hush, I'm afraid. However, Cicero _can_ tell Zappy that he takes his position very seriously. Also - Cicero is _much more_ than a mere bodyguard to Ula; Officially." He pauses a moment, as if considering how to phrase his next words. "Cicero's title of Keeper encompasses physical protection, of course, but it's also a job which entails an advisory portion, as well as a responsibility of servitude."

I furrow my brow, trying to understand. "So, you're her...Servant?"

The Colovian sighs, then seems to brace himself - as if what he's going to say might get him punished.

"Cicero is...A servant of Sithis, and Ulalume is the last true _mouthpiece_ of Sithis. Ergo, Cicero serves Sithis by serving Ulalume."

"And that's all there is?"

"..." He squinted at me, mouth turning into a deeper frown. "...Cicero and Ula were...Friends. He taught her everything he knows about - ...Our... _Organization_ , and about the religion it follows. He taught her the history, the rules, and what would be expected of her. I think, because of how Cicero treated her, Ula felt like she finally belonged somewhere. And...Then Cicero did something that put that into question, and that event made her who she is today."

So he _is_ to blame for her cold demeanor.

Curiosity, ever my mistress - commanded me to ask more questions. "What was she like before?" He narrows his eyes at me.

"...Does it matter?"

"I'm just curious," I say. His expression doesn't change. "...She's different now, even from when she and I traveled together. I assume she was different before the event, as well?"

He hesitates."...She was, yes. There was something naive about her intelligence before, but I can't say that I miss it at all." His frown deepens. "I have another question for _you_ , Zappy."

Ah, damn. "...What is it?"

"What do you hope to gain from this? Traveling with us, I mean. A man like yourself counts his time as _valuable_ , I'm sure."

I look down at my hands. "...You want me to be honest?"

"It's preferable." He answers.

"...I don't know." _Part of me just wanted to be able to see her again, and the other was foolishly optimistic that something might finally spark between us._ "...I like being around her. I'm sure you understand what that's like."

He seems a bit taken aback by my honesty, which gives me a bit of a thrill that I've I've managed to catch someone like him off guard.

I'm not interested in playing whatever game he had in mind.

"...Interesting." Is what he _says_ , though I can see gears moving in his head. "...I think that's enough questions for now."

"Fine by me."

* * *

We approach the encampment early in the morning, the sun barely cresting over the horizon. It's an odd sort of feeling, planning deaths as Nirn still sleeps and the dew on the grass is fresh. For people like Ula and Cicero, I guess it's normal.

It feels liminal to me, like a peace before a storm. It's quiet this morning - with the gentle sound of hay-grass rustling and insects and birds beginning to stir. It leaves me reverent for a moment, and I want to soak in the stillness but find my feet moving of their own accord. Following Ula, and her motley-clad shadow.

The orange hues of the sunrise are absorbed by the dark cloak she wears, billowing from her shoulders in dramatic folds. The gold-stained glass armor I'm wearing isn't made for sneaking, but I knew that didn't matter. I was a shiny target, and the jester had already remarked that I'd make a fine distraction. I was determined to show him what I was made of, target or not.

The encampment is made entirely of logs, pointed so that they would be difficult to scale. From the gate I saw three ramshackle structures made of planks, spaced apart and clearly on different height orientations. Ula - always and forever bold as she was beautiful - decided the best way to embark upon what she dubbed a simple 'errand' - was to walk right through the center gate.

I admit, I was a bit nervous - not because I didn't think we'd succeed, but because I was a few months out of practice. I hadn't taken any mercenary work in the time of Ula's absence for fear of missing her if/when she came back to Riften - and the usual adrenaline-fueled thrill before a fight was more of a measured response of trepidation.

I reminded myself that these were just _bandits_ , and I was with two highly-trained assassins from _The Dark Brotherhood_ \- things would go well here, even if the plans changed mid-way. Any unforeseen circumstances would be handled efficiently and quickly; And by the manic glint in the Colovian's eye: I suspected _brutally,_ as well.

The gate creaked when it opened, causing the lines of Ula's body to stiffen. I listened for any signs of stirring within the encampment but heard none. Ula relaxed slightly when she, too, noticed nothing out of the ordinary and crept forward, squatting to her haunches.

She performed a quick tuck-and-roll past one entrance of the shacks I had saw on the approach and loomed beside it. She placed a single finger to her lips and jerked her head in an attempt to gesture to the man sleeping on a bedroll inside. With one quick movement, she was in and out like smoke - cutting the man's throat with a blade produced from her sleeve. She dampened his death-gurgle by shoving her hand in front of his mouth, and when that was finished she was already looking for another victim.

The first _three_ died this way, sleeping souls cast into The Void with confusion and pain being their last memories. It troubled me to watch Ula kill - it seemed almost unnatural, the way she never blinked or flinched, the easy way she ended a life. But there was sort of a thrill - warmer, now, than the cold hand of trepidation; Deep in my chest. It stole my breathe away, and I was a little dismayed that I could still scarcely tell if it was horror or infatuation.

Upon the fourth bandit we discovered the encampment was actually protecting an entrance to a mine. This was also when we discovered their watchman, who - in his half-asleep-state - hadn't noticed even myself in highly reflective armor until Ula had gotten close to him. Without missing a beat, Ula stabbed him in the throat - but not before he had already yelled an alarm. His life ended with a wet, rasping gurgle as he tried to fulfill his job even in death.

I was shaken free of the passive feeling that had possessed me; The notion that I was a ghost following on the outside of my own body, slamming back into reality with such force that it nearly disoriented me. My hand was already at my sword when I stood, the other readying a flame-spell.

Cicero was the first to react when a duo of bandits came from near a half-snuffed forge, charging at them with such unrestrained glee that it almost made me feel nauseous. An archer was setting up at her post, so I lazily flung a mote of fire at her and she nearly fell off.

To be honest, I was a little sleepy, too. It took a moment for me to get in the correct head-space that combat magic required, but once I was on - the fight was actually quite easy.

I switched it up a little, opting for lightning rather than fire as the entire encampment was made out of wood. When the archer tried to set themselves right again, I delivered a spot-on bolt of lightning directly into their chest. They convulsed in the air for a moment before falling dead on the other side of the wall in a sizzling heap of half-fried human flesh.

Another tried to come at me, but they fell easily to a swipe of the enchanted blade I wielded. It never failed to amaze me that bandits would charge full force with nothing more than a measly little shiv, believing that they might win.

Ula was beside Cicero, dodging the strikes of one of the duo of bandits that had first emerged while Cicero gave him superficial wounds. I'd noticed that nearly all the bandits here were wearing rather thin hide-based armor, with a few of them managing to cobble together some steel pieces - but most of these pieces were things like gauntlets or bits on their boots. It was child's-play for people like them, I suppose, because the Colovian was laughing.

Or, perhaps he always was like that. Ula _did_ remark that he laughed at the weirdest times. It was a bit unnerving. What wasn't, however, was watching them work together. It was actually quite...Mesmerizing. The moved in tandem in a way that felt practiced and concise.

With a slightly nauseous feeling, I realized they were _toying_ with them. There was no way that they couldn't have killed them by now.

As soon as I had thought that, it seemed they were tired of the game.

Ula grabbed the bandit, who was furious and bleeding, and managed to use their weight against them - throwing them on the ground. The jester was on them quickly like an attack dog, climbing over them with his long limbs to deliver the killing blow.

Ula was already slashing at the second one when another enemy tried to get at me in my temporary distracted state. It was a rather large man with a great-sword, clad in a bit more heavier armor than his friends. He must have heard the commotion from inside the mine and dressed himself before heading out.

I didn't bother with the sword.

"Morning." I muttered to him, raising my hands to ready another spell.

Before he could reply, I sent a jolt of lightning through his body, intensified by the steel plating he wore. The man convulsed, his eyes bulging behind the helmet. It was easy, simple. He fell to the ground, like all the others.

I hadn't even broken a sweat.

The fight went on a bit longer, punctuated by slashes and the occasional assist of a lightning bolt into some poor fool's chest.

Ula picked through the remains of the slaughter, pocketing trinkets and coin in her practiced way. Cicero, ever amused by chaos and bloodshed, muttered jokes to himself as he followed her through the encampment.

He hadn't spoken to me much since our conversation last night, which left me feeling a bit relieved. He had tried to antagonize me a bit with the 'distraction' comment, but it was clear that my answers left him with less interest in me than before. I wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. I'd just take it as it came: The less we spoke, the better.

At the very least of it, the only irritation I found myself suffering through was how unabashedly infatuated I found myself in the aftermath of violence, as a witness to Ula's nature. It made my stomach churn and my heart flutter - to be simultaneously disgusted and excited by the idea this woman could _cut me down with nary a blink_ was thrilling; and something I had once came to terms with but now found it difficult to suppress after our long time apart.

* * *

The trek back into Falkreath proper wasn't long, less than a few hours - and we were just about to turn on the main road when we found a dog.

It was a large grey beast with shaggy fur; a common breed of wolfhound favored by the Nords and some of the northern Colovians. It was just...Sitting, as if waiting for something to come along the roadside.

Ula halted immediately, raising her arm.

"Do you think that's the dog that blacksmith is looking for?" She wondered aloud, though her voice was nothing more a loud whisper - as if she would startle the canine if she spoke at a normal volume. I shrugged in response.

"Maybe."

"Are we really going to try and catch him, Listener?" Cicero asked, clearly a bit annoyed. She nodded a bit excitedly.

"It can't be that hard! C'mon, it's easy gold in our pockets. We've got all this loot to sell and the bounty to collect, we might as well see if we can earn more by turning in the dog, too." The jester, obviously used to her antics, just nodded. He clearly didn't agree with her priorities but said nothing to challenge her.

I didn't really see a problem, as it couldn't be too difficult to catch a dog and turn it in to it's owner. How hard could it be? It was convienent that we were headed into town anyways.

Ula assumed a friendlier posture, crouching down when she got closer to the grey hound. She dug in her pack for a moment and reached out to it, a piece of jerked meat in her hand. "C'mere boy! Look! Mmm, yummy!" Her baby-speak-voice was absolutely adorable, and I found myself blushing a little at the sound of it. Who would believe me if I told them an assassin of The Dark Brotherhood was so cute?

"Oh, good, I'm glad your here! Ain't nobody was comin' down this road, it seems. I was lookin' for someone to help me." A voice came from nowhere, clearly not belonging to any of the three of us. Ula straightened quickly, dropping the meat from her hand.

"Uh - " She began, clearly unnerved.

"...What, you ain't ever heard of a talkin' dog before? Ha." The voice spoke again, and this time I noticed the peculiar accent. Ula, already pale in complexion, turned sheet-white.

"Th-the - " She stammered. "...Is that - is the _dog_ talking?"

Cicero burst out laughing, a sort of explosive sound that startled me. It was like he'd been keeping it in for a while, and once he started it was like he couldn't stop. He was practically weeping by the time the voice chimed in again.

"Yeah, it's me." The dog sighed. "...You're friend here 's got a bad case of the giggles, huh? Ah well. So, are ya gunna listen to me or not?"

"Is this some kind of trick? Some illusion magic of some kind? It's not funny." Ula demanded, crossing her arms. Cicero was still laughing, sort of undermining her seriousness.

"Nah, no joke." The voice spoke. "Name's Barbas - and I'm a talkin' dog in a land host to giants and flying, shouting lizards. -And I _really do_ need some help. All you gotta do is take me back to my master - we had a fallin' out, you see, and I need someone to vouch for me. That's all. Whaddya say?"

"The...Blacksmith?" I wondered out loud.

"What blacksmith?" The dog (?) asked, cocking it's head to one side. He seemed confused - as confused as a dog could project, I suppose, and swung his large head to meet Ula's disturbed gaze. "...Nah. I don't know nothin' about that. But - Look, I'll make sure you get rewarded handsomely. Just - just don't take any deals my master offers, okay? You got that? ...Now, are ya gunna help me or what?"

Ula was silent, clearly weighing her options.


	34. Clavicus Vile: Part One

"I can't believe that we are escorting a _dog_." Marcurio muttered.

"A _talking_ dog." Cicero corrected, equally unhappy with the turn of events.

I ignored them, instead focusing on the path forward. Barbas trotted happily ahead of us, leading the way with his wagging tail.

In truth, I found the situation too surreal to be felt seriously, but I was curious to see how things would turn out. If this wasn't all a fever dream, it was likely I'd be rewarded by a Daedric Prince. If it was all in my head, however, well - I suppose it would make a good story to tell later.

"What happened between you and Clavicus Vile?" I asked the dog, and I admit it felt a bit foolish to be talking seriously to him. He slowed down a bit and looked over his matted-fur covered shoulder-blade.

"I'd rather not talk about it in detail, actually - and I'd appreciate it if you respected that. Long story short though, he kicked me out over a disagreement. My master tends ta get too into himself and thinks he doesn't need me - but in the end it always ends up hurting him. I don't like ta see him like that, and I've already been away too long. Who knows what kinda trouble he's been gettin' himself into? I'd rather not think about that, if I'm being honest."

I processed what he said for a moment. "...Clavicus needs you?"

"...Well, yeah." If Barbas had been in the shape of a person, he might of shrugged just then. "I like ta consider myself a part of him, you know? A bit more of a 'forward thinker,' and all that. Like the other side of a coin. Don't get me wrong, my master is smart and powerful - but without me he's stunted. That's not hubris, either. It's just the facts," Barbas explained, "We operate more efficiently when I'm with him, but he does get a kick out of the little burst of power he gets when I'm expelled from his side. Unfortunately, that's more of a temporary thing."

"What makes you think he'll want you back?" Marcurio piped up. The dog turned back to the path and resumed his pace.

"Oh, he'll want me back alright. Like I said, that little boost of power is temporary - and it comes with a price. He can't go anywhere without me. Think of me as sorta his legs and consciousness. He's got intelligence and trickery in spades, but without me my master can't move. _Literally_. It's kinda a fail-safe, I guess - just how we were made. Without each other, his realm would fall to pieces. He can't help his nature; And I can't help mine."

"So what do you want us to do when we get there?" I ask.

"...Well, first, we gotta _actually_ get there. Then all you have to do is convince him that I'm worth keeping around. Normally, I'd do it myself - but he's been pretty grumpy lately. I have a feeling he'd just try to banish me again, even though it wouldn't be in his best interest. He's kinda funny like that - sometimes he values _amusement_ above more important things, like logic. And it's that sorta thing that makes it so that he needs me. Just remind him that he's gunna be trapped where he's at for a long time if he banishes me again, and it won't be fun for him. Easy, right?"

"Hm." I scoffed, "Too easy. What's the catch?" The dog stopped in it's tracks, looking suddenly nervous.

"Ah, yeah. Well, you see, the uh...The cave he's in right now - well, the statue that's trapping him at least...It's uh...It's infested with vampires. Just run-of-the-mill ones, though! Not them fancy ones from Cyrod or the Volkihar strain. You guys look like you can handle a couple'a starving and diseased peasants, so I'm not worried."

Marcurio slowed to a stop, causing Cicero and I to also do so as well. "You didn't think to tell us this _before_?"

"-What, are you afraid of a few bloodsuckers?" Barbas wondered, clearly challenging the wizard.

"-I'm not," He answered, "It's just highly suspicious that we didn't receive the whole story _first_."

"I'm tellin' ya the story _now_ , you nincompoop. It woulda been suspicious if I woulda let ya walk in there without a warnin'!" Barbas barked...Literally.

"...Hmph. Fair enough, I suppose." The wizard responded, frowning deeply. After a few moments, we resumed walking again. "...So where is this cave, anyways?"

"It's some place called Haemar's Shame, Southwest of Ivarstead." Barbas answered, "It's actually not too far - it's still in Falkreath hold, just off the main road and through a short mountain pass."

"Strange," I muttered, " - For a Daedric Prince's shrine to be so easily accessible."

"Yeah, well - Most commoners stick to the main roads, you know." Barbas replied, a smile in his voice: "And no one would think to look in a place relatively close to civilization. I think it's pretty clever, but uh, I might be biased."

* * *

We make it to the cave with little trouble, though the elevation of the surrounding area made it very chilly for the last part of our trek. The wind wasn't quite freezing as it might have been had we been in one of the northern holds, but it still bit at my nose and cheeks in a way that had me pulling my hood over my face to get away from the feeling.

The cave itself was lackluster in appearance; certainly nothing marking it as special or a place where a cult might worship a Daedric Prince. Even so, we prepared ourselves and made a plan before stepping inside.

"I don't have any _first-hand_ experience with fighting vampires, but I've read about them pretty extensively." Marc began, "Vampires are resistant to most types of damage except fire and good old-fashioned maiming. If you can chop a limb off, it'll slow them down. Go for the head and heart - but remember, they don't really bleed out, and they won't go into shock if you manage to rip a limb off. Their senses are heightened, so blinding them won't be as effective as you think, either. The goal is to decapitate the head or destroy their heart."

"Stab em' in the chest, or chop off their head - got it. " I nodded. "Did you hear that, Keeper?"

"...They don't bleed?" He answered, mumbling dejectedly, "...Where's the fun in that?"

"They _do_ bleed, but it's very slow and coagulated." Marc corrected, "Remember, they're mostly dead. That's why they burn like dry hay-grass in the summertime."

"See? Look at you! What a team, amirite?" Barbas said, nodding his canine head. "You'll do fine. We'll get to my master in no time."

"Please don't use the word 'team' to describe us." Marc muttered, "But you're right, we'll be fine. I have...No doubt of that."

"Thanks for the enthusiastic vote of confidence, Marc." I grumbled, "Anyways, let's get this show on the road."

We moved through the entryway quickly, noticing a few splatters of blood along our way.

"They've recently fed." Marc observed. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. That much was obvious, but I wasn't about to call him out on it. He needed to feel useful in other ways that weren't magic, sometimes.

The entrance lead into a natural tunnel, which after a few paces turned south. We crept quietly through the cold stone hallway, and the passage opened out into a chamber with a large wooden scaffold. Sitting atop of this scaffolding was a bandit-looking thrall, whose back was turned to us as he fixed the positioning of his chair.

Wordlessly, I strung up my bow and let an arrow fly - straight into his neck. The thrall made a wet noise as he flew forward onto his knees, fingers grasping at the offending piece of wood in his throat with desperate, clawing motions.

He slumped onto his belly quietly, wheezing his final breath. I push through the two men accompanying me and make way towards the fresh corpse carefully. I discover an unlocked chest nearby with a few bits and bobs useful for selling, and a few coins in the thrall's pockets.

"You get right to it, don't ya?" Barbas muttered, observing me stuff my new acquisitions into my pack, "...Well, I guess I respect an enterprisin' individual."

"Somebody once told me, ' _A thief, is a thief - is thief_.'" I muttered, then turned toward the east. "Let's continue."

We moved through a short but winding passage-way, which lead to another chamber that contained a ramp and another passage through the west. I shot my arm out to stop the men (...and dog...) behind me and quickly motioned to the pressure-plate atop the ramp, and the clear view of a vampire moving within the chamber in the low light.

I strung my bow quickly and moved forward into the chamber, ducking down to my haunches. I moved quietly ahead of the group, careful not to breathe or move too fast. Fortunately, I dispatched the undead humanoid before it saw us.

We moved deeper into the cavern, moving through the only available passage towards the west. Twisting tunnels opened into a ledge overlooking a large chamber, which was accessed by a wooden ramp that was illuminated faintly by a campfire. A table and chair set was also dimly lit, and a thrall sat facing away from the entrance.

"Can Cicero do this one, My Listener?" The jester whispered. " _Please_?"

I rolled my eyes. "Silent. Stealthy." I urged.

"Of course, _of course_." He grinned happily and unsheathed his dagger.

I watched as he descended into the shadowed chamber. He pounced on the thrall, covering their mouth with a velvet-clad hand and plunged the dagger into their throat, ripping the flesh with the serrated edge. They gurgled, seizing in his arms - thrashing noiselessly as he pulled them up from the chair. They struggled for a few moments longer, kicking up dust with their fur-lined boots before halting to the stillness of death.

Carefully, Cicero laid them on the floor and retrieved his knife. He covered his mouth to stifle the manic laugh bubbling there, pulling back into the shadows - the lines of his body jittery and excited. He scampered back excitedly to our group.

"You sure do like this kinda stuff, huh?" Barbas asked, his whisper-voice not much lower than his conversational tone. I winced by his loudness but thankfully no alarms were raised because of it.

We continued and moved into the chamber quietly, whereupon entering I noticed human remains on the table near the fresh-corpse made by Cicero. The bones were nearly stripped clean, and it struck me as odd that vampires would do such a thing. I really didn't want to think about how they were feeding their thralls.

...Some foodstuffs were here and there, barrels of cheese and some dried meats, but the human remains were fresh and placed in wooden bowls...

I didn't dwell any further than that.

"...My Listener, did you hear that?" Cicero whispered.

I froze immediately and listened carefully. I heard nothing but silence and the sound of our breathing.

I was about to ask what he meant when a bright light lit up the dark room. A deafening _crack!_ Punctuated the sudden burst of light - and then -

The room was silent. The flash had temporarily blinded me, so it took a moment for my eyes to adjust.

The head of a vampire rolled and bumped against my feet, and in my surprise I scrambled backwards. The body it belonged to slumped to the ground with a hard, sick noise - just to the left of me.

I tried to piece together what had just transpired.

I looked up and saw Marc with his lightning-enchanted sword still in a defensive position, and I realized that it had been _him_ who had cut the vampire down.

He sheathed his sword nonchalantly, muttering, "It was about to lunge. You didn't see it?"

I said nothing, burning with a bit of shame and a reluctance to thank him out loud. I simply gave him a sort of nod, wordlessly acknowledging what had happened. He seemed satisfied with this and walked a little taller.

"Good thing ya got that guy here." Barbas mumbled, and I could feel Cicero bristle under his current passive, un-emotive facade.

"Oh yes! Zappy is a good asset to the _team_." Cicero cheerfully _said_ , though I could easily tell it was performative. The jester was absolutely seething.

Marcurio scoffed, and we left it at that.

 _'I am not infallible.'_ I reminded myself.

Oh, if only that I were.

"Coffins." Marcurio pointed out a cluster of them, all of them empty. We noted the number and kept moving, pocketing trinkets as we came upon the exit to this part of the cavern. We passed a dead Imperial laying on a table to the right of us, his body partially mutilated by a simple woodcutter's ax.

The passage forward, ever twisting and turning, continued to descend until it opened into yet another cavernous space. This space was divided by levels; A raised level and a lower middle level, not entirely unlike the previous. We entered quietly as we could, but with the low level of light it was hard to see exactly where dangers could lurk.

I was already on edge, shamed by my previous blunder, when suddenly a distinctly humanoid screech pierced the near silence of the caves.

We had been heard.

Marcurio immediately cast a spell of light and threw the wisp towards the ceiling so that we could see better, the other hand readying flames. Barbas crouched behind us, being in the body of a frail dog - though I wasn't certain if he could transform himself or not.

I saw that two vampires had been patrolling the upper level that we were currently on, and both were rushing at us on either side. With little time to react, in one swift movement I unsheathed my dagger and swung my leg out wildly, hoping to hit the one that came screeching from the right before it pounced.

My foot connected with its face, sending it sprawling against the snow-covered stone floor. It recovered quickly, however, on its feet almost as soon as making contact with the ground. The vampire which came from the left was engaged in combat with Marcurio and Barbas, the previous of whom was latched onto its leg with biting teeth. I had half-figured the dog would be a coward based on his disposition, but was pleasantly surprised to find that I was wrong.

Vampires are fast - have faster reflexes than even mine or Cicero's; We've trained to look for tells and weak spots in normal, living adversaries, not vampires or other creatures. Barbas' approach gave me a good idea on how to counter this, and our own fallibility.

"Incapacitate first, then execute." I said aloud, knowing the jester would understand immediately it was an order for him alone.

"Yes, My Listener," He responded right away, grinning that manic smile he always sported when we were in combat.

The vampire was upon us quickly, reaching with its talon-like fingers. I narrowly dodged a swipe from its claws, distracting it momentarily as Cicero moved into its side. A swift slash at it's side proved to hurt it slightly, the undead creature crying out in pain. I grabbed it by the throat and shoved it backwards as it reeled, trying to push it off it's feet - but it was much stronger than me.

Its hand grabbed my arm, pulling me into it - mouth open and waiting to clamp down on my flesh. I resisted and stabbed at it with my weapon, plunging the knife into its chest. It tried to lift me off my feet but Cicero jumped onto its back, laughing gleefully as he rammed his dagger into the creature's skull - through it's eye-socket.

It wailed in pain and let me go, both of its hands reaching to try to pull the offending thing out. I quickly regained my balance and kicked the thing in the stomach, sending it sprawling to the ground. I pounced on top of it, slashing it deeply in the throat until I hit bone on all sides. It gurgled pitifully as Cicero retrieved his knife and grabbed the thing by the hair and pulled violently upwards, twisting with both hands - snapping its neck and dislocating it from the rest of the spine with a sick wet creaking sound.

It was a vulgar display, but it did the job. The thing never got back up.

I turned to look and see how Marcurio and Barbas were faring, and was not surprised to see the creature they had dealt with decapitated and charred.

"All clear." He muttered, wiping his blade clean of viscera. "Shall we move onward?"

I nod in response, quietly watching as he sheathed the blade once more.

As we moved through the caverns, we came across more dead bodies and sights such as hanging cages and empty coffins. There was clearly a whole settled brood here, living in the caverns for some time.

Moving through tunnels and killing any hostile force that came against us, we finally came upon the Shrine to Clavicus Vile himself. Barbas, upon seeing the statue, wagged his tail furiously - though his happiness was short-lived. Upon entering the end of the cave, we were instantly spotted by the small group of vampires worshiping at his shrine.

I found it odd, _vampires -_ Children of Malog Bal - worshiping _Clavicus Vile_.

They hissed in anger at the interrupted ceremonies and began to rush at us with outstretched talons and magic readied in their palm. I counted six in total.

They vampires came at us like a swarm, limited only by the narrow walk-space of the higher section of the chamber.

Marcurio blasted the first assailant with a well-timed fireball, knocking them off the natural ramp. I quickly moved forward, sinking my pair of daggers into the chest of the next, kicking it off of the ledge and into the chamber below. It screeched as it rose, trying to regroup with the others. Marcurio fired at it, missing the first time but landing the second blast of fire. It screamed as it burned, trying to tamp out the arcane flame with its bare-hands.

The third vampire in the group tried to sink its talons into Barbas, thinking the dog-shaped-daedra was an easy target. Barbas snarled, snapping his jaws against the other's throat. He tugged the creature down, and I answered with a quick knife jab to its heart.

The fourth and fifth went down equally as easily by our group, and when it came time to execute the sixth - we did so without a second thought or hesitation.

Barbas bounded happily to the front of the shrine, his tail wagging again.

I walked toward the statue, which depicted Clavicus Vile much in a way that I was unused to seeing - not that I had seen many statues of him in my lifetime, nor have I read too many books on the Daedric Princes, but I knew his image was usually that of a goblin-esque type creature of small stature and pointed ears.

This statue beheld him as a fairly attractive man: With long wavy hair that reached to his shoulders, and a pair of horns which curled against his head. He was thin and lithe as opposed to the short and squat creature I had seen once depicted in Cyrodiil. The statue itself was posed: He held up a mask that was also horned, and wore flowing garments that reminded me of the sort of tunics the rich Nibenesians wore during the summertime.

I placed myself in front of the statue, quite unsure what else to do with myself. "...Clavicus Vile?" I whispered nervously, "...I have a request for you."

I felt velvet-gloved hands tug me back away from the shrine as the stone began to vibrate violently.

"A request you say?" The strangely accented voice of the statue spoke rather animatedly, "Well, I think we can come to some sort of deal, especially as you've helped me out! It's the least I could do. You see, the vampires you've killed begged me to put them out of their misery - and then ta-da! _You_ appeared! I couldn't have planned it better myself." A pause. "...What is your heart's desire, my friend?"

"...I just want you to take Barbas back." I answered, voice trembling, and the dog happily stepped forward. "In return, I ask...For nothing."

For a long moment there was silence, and I worried that the prince had just ignored us and up and left - but then a spectral figure manifested out of the statue - climbing free of the stone - and I realized at once it was the Prince, making himself into flesh.

A surge of nausea and anxiety swept through me as the Daedric Prince manifested himself in front of us, one limb at a time.

The prince smoothed the white tunic he wore, then tossed a lock of his strawberry-blonde hair over his shoulder.

The room felt too hot all of a sudden.

 _Red-hair_ -

Clavicus Vile stepped toward us, looking quite bored and greatly unamused. He reminded me so much of a statesman that it made me feel suddenly even more nauseous - Like I was being charged of something in a court of law. It didn't help my mood whatsoever.

Cicero's grip tightened as the Daedric Prince closed the distance between himself and our group.

" _You._ " He thrusted a finger into my face, leaning down as he was a good two heads taller than me. "How dare you come to me with such a request? That infernal dog is more trouble than he's worth."

" - But - !"

"My answer is _no_ \- no deal! I'm glad to be rid of him!" He paused, the finger curling against his palm. "...Even...If that _does_ mean I'm stuck here...In this cave...At the back-end of nowhere...All alone...Forever...Hmm."

"...It sounds as if you'd miss him if you banished him again." I muttered. I wondered if there was some sort of special honorific I should call the Prince by, but 'sir' felt too strange. Convincing him, however, would prove easier than I thought.

His angular face shifted into a thoughtful expression.

"...Hm...I'll tell you what, friend. You do something for me, and I'll _consider_ taking Barbas back." The Daedric Prince smiled, straight white teeth gleaming in the dim light of the room. I felt horribly sweaty.

"...What do you want me to do?" I asked. He turned on his heel, fingers steepled together.

"...There's an ax I want, actually - it's an artifact. I'm a ... _Collector_ , you see; I'm sure _you_ of all people can understand." He moved forward and placed a finger under my chin, lifting my face to meet his gaze. "I like pretty things...P _owerful_ things. I'm willing to part with them occasionally, but they always find a way back to me." He regarded my face for a moment longer, black empty eyes drawn to whatever he found most intriguing of my countenance. "..Heroes _always_ want a prize, something to trade. It's good to have a few things in stow to give away."

I feel light-headed and dizzy. It feels almost as if he's taking my very life force away, and I _want_ to resist - but I suddenly feel so _very_ sleepy.

Clavicus' long-fingered hand cups my face in a strangely familiar and tender caress. "So. This ax, I want it for my collection! If you can give it to me, we'll discuss our terms further."

"...Tell me more about the ax...Where can I find it?" I mumble, a strange sort of horror creeping into my bones. I dared not move, lest the Prince find my avoidance an excuse to grab me some more.

He moves away, thankfully, but I still feel as though I can't breathe.

The Daedric Prince looks off into the darkness for some time, as if divining where the object of his desire truly is. He regards his statue with bored eyes, crossing his arms over his narrow chest. "...It's in Rimerock Burrow, guarded by a mage. I'm sure you lot can handle him - he's old, and a lot slower than these _vampires_ were." To punctuate is point, he turns and kicks one of the corpses slightly, making it roll over onto its back.

I don't hesitate, eager to leave the cave. "...Okay." I agree, "I'll do it."

He turns and glances up at me through strawberry-hued waves, soulless eyes piercing into my face.

"Good." And then he smiles, but there's a sort of menace that punctuates the curvature of it. "I trust you won't take long? I _hate_ waiting."


	35. Clavicus Vile: Part Two

I hesitated at the entrance of Haemar's Shame.

"...What if he doesn't take you back, Barbas?"

"Oh, he'll take me back alright." The dog-shaped-daedra answered. "He's got the better end of a pretty good deal so far - an ax that he wants, and his power conduit - for nothing in return."

"It's too easy, and that's what makes me nervous. I've dealt with a Daedric Prince only once before; and she spoke a contractual language I was more familiar with."

No one said anything.

I knew Marcurio was entirely dubious about making a deal with a Daedric Prince, but he had not said much to me personally about the subject in the whole of the time; I didn't expect him to speak up now. Cicero regarded the whole thing as - what he called - a _stalling tactic_ , as if this might guilt me into abandoning the quest. It, of course, did not.

I found no comfort with either of them, their eyes trained to my back - awaiting my call.

The silence became nearly unbearable, before one of us spoke:

"...Clavicus Vile is about fairness - what _he_ thinks is fair, anyways." Marcurio muttered, fixing the dog in an accusing glare. "As it stands, I don't think even a _Daedric Prince_ would consider this trade fair. It's beginning to feel like a set-up, or that we're walking into a trap."

"On the contrary," Cicero interrupted, "If we _live_ through the transaction, _Zappy_ , don't we get our lives as a reward?"

"We _already_ have our lives - " The wizard argued,

"We could _lose_ them, speaking to a Daedra. It's considered a mercy - and mercy _always_ has a price, which means it's valuable."

"-The jester's right." Barbas weighed in, thankfully interrupting their squabble before it had a chance to begin. "...Although, I'd be the first to say that I think it's a load of hogwash. Giving someone something they already have in their own possession isn't that fair - but it's what's considered _decent_ in polite company."

I frowned. "Even so, a life is different than a soul."

"...Well, yeah, but what's your point?" The dog wondered.

"It's not my life I'm entirely concerned about, Barbas." I sighed dejectedly. " ...I don't want to disappoint Clavicus - I've heard stories of his rage when he doesn't get what he wants. He's like a...Spoiled child, who's never been told 'no' before. " I turned to the dog. "...My soul isn't up for the taking, you see, as it's not mine anymore."

Awkward silence reigned for a moment, but it felt like an eternity. The dog spoke: "Ah, Don't you worry about it! Something tells me Clavicus won't ask for your soul."

"Can you guarantee that?" I asked. Silence again, until the dog answered.

"...Well, I can't guarantee nothin' Clavicus will or will not do, if I'm being honest. ...Just call it a gut feelin' though - and I'm usually right about things like that a good chunk of the time."

That didn't make me feel better. What would happen if I angered a Daedric Prince? Would Sithis allow me to be persecuted for my folly and hubris?

* * *

We enter the cave, after much internal deliberation. I thought it best to at least try to fulfill my end of the bargain - not showing up at all would probably piss off Clavicus even more than my soul being unavailable.

The shrine and statue greets us in the dim light, the vampire's corpses now just piles of ash scattered around the rocky floor.

"Ah! You're back. How delightful. And you've got my ax, too! Even better!" The voice from the statue calls out to us. I pull the ax free from the makeshift baldric I'd fashioned specifically to carry it.

"Yes. And Barbas is here too, still in one piece." The Daedric Prince makes a scoffing sound, and he appears before us again - climbing free from the statue.

"Oh, good." He sounds slightly displeased, absently touching one of the horns protruding from his forehead.

"...Can we discuss terms, now?" I ask hopefully, keeping my voice level and calm.

The Daedric Prince pointedly ignores me, purposefully avoiding eye-contact. "...Feels _good_ to stretch my legs, you know." He mutters, as if we needed an explanation. "Can't do it much if Barbas isn't here - but ah, well." He frowns suddenly. "...You said you wanted to discuss terms." He then makes a show of shrugging half-heatedly and moves towards us, rubbing his hands together like a villain in a novel. "Let's make the deal, shall we? I've been so _bored_."

"Okay." I take a deep breath in to calm myself. "...The ax and Barbas are yours, if you'll take them. My end of the contract has been fulfilled." I offer the ax to Clavicus, who takes it from my hands excitedly. His expression sobers after a few moments.

"...You know, you went through _all that trouble_ getting the ax for me, with an annoying dog yapping by your ear the whole time. Wouldn't you rather keep it? It is, after all, a pretty neat mundane artifact." He glides his fingers over the worn-out blade of the head of the ax. "...You're a collector too, aren't you?" He pulls the ax into the light, making the metal gleam dimly.

"...What?"

" _New deal_ ," The Daedric Prince mumbles, thrusting the ax towards me, "You can have this powerful _special_ ax - if you kill Barbas with it, right here - right now. No strings attached!"

"Master!" Barbas gasped, clearly surprised and shaken by this request. "Remember the last time you killed me? It took me _ages_ to reform! And you were practically imprisoned, after a while!"

The Daedric Prince's head swiveled to meet the gaze of the dog, which might have been comical in any other circumstance. He looked absolutely livid.

"Maybe a change of pace will relieve me of this terrible boredom! I'm prone to suffer it every few hundred years, and the common denominator is _always_ you! You're always holding me back!" Clavicus snapped. "And sure, I'll eventually be stuck somewhere again - but in the meantime, I'll have whole _years_ of uninterrupted power with you gone!"

"Years to us is like a few _minutes_ , Master, you know that!" Barbas' voice softens slightly, clearly trying to placate the prince. "...Is that _really_ worth the trade-off? C'mon, you're smarter than that."

Clavicus shifted his attention back to me, clearly ignoring the dog. His expression was manic, yet focused. "You like killing things, don't you? Collecting and killing, that's all you ever seem to do, _dragon maiden_ \- why not sate your desires now?"

I feel a jolt of panic. If he _knew_ , then was this all an elaborate attempt to siphon my soul power? Was Barbas sent to collect me? And worse, was _Marcurio_ right? I'd never live it down, if I continued to live at all -

"How do you know - ?" I stammered, pulling away from the shrine with stumbling feet.

"Oh, come now. I'm not _stupid_ \- despite what Barbas would like you to think! Do you think a powerful soul could walk down here to _my_ shrine and I wouldn't notice what they are?"

...He said _what_ \- not _who_. It leaves me uncomfortable, with self-depreciating questions about my identity slowly forming from the bubbling remnants of what he's implied.

More silence falls between us, which I break with a sigh. I decide to play it cool, though my heart is beating in my throat. "...Are you going to ask for my soul?" I ask, forcing my tone into an almost passive boredom.

The Daedric Prince laughed in my face, smelling of snowberries and musk along with the damp peat-smell of the cave. "No, of course not, my dear." He reaches forward and bats a curl from my cheek, eyes locked with mine, and I make sure not to flinch away. "As I said, I'm _not_ stupid - _you can only collect things that you can keep and store and admire._ I've learned my lesson on that, and I see how Haermaus Mora struggles with it -" He freezes, then covers his mouth briefly with his fingers, then smiles behind them. "...Oh, but _spoilers_!"

A quick laugh and then he's continuing, and I'm unable to process what he even means: "In any case, I'm not interested in your soul. Well, I _am_ , but I know it isn't up for the taking. Old Ways, and all that." He makes a dismissive hand gesture. "I _like_ to follow rules, sometimes! They can be fun, when they're self-imposed. And they can make things safer; It's _safe_ to say I'd be getting the short end of the stick if I collected your soul - the drawbacks _nearly_ matches the positives, but not close enough, for my tastes. Sithis is not one of us. I don't mind stealing _outright_ from my siblings, or my cousins, but overstepping from there could be...Troublesome, to say the least."

"...I'm _not_ killing your dog, no matter how you present the idea." I answered. "The original deal was that you'd consider taking Barbas back if I got you the ax. That's all. It's not my business weather or not you _do,_ and I'd like to take my leave of this place regardless of your decision. I did not promise Barbas that I _could_ reunite you two permanently, just that I would take you to him. We made our agreements fairly, with the assumption that I would fulfill my end of the contract and be rewarded within means for the task."

I sense a shift, and I can tell he's a bit irritated with me. "And _**I**_ said: _New deal._ It's a counter offer to the original, and I think it's far more _fair_ \- don't you think?" He moves closer to me, lifting my chin with his fingers. His voice softens a few measures, and I feel myself uncomfortable with his touch - its a strange mix of emotions, like I crave it and yet it repulses me all the same. "...Aren't you tired of having the sour ends of deals? Don't you want more _fairness_ in your life? Tell me _one_ thing you think has been fair in your entire life."

I say nothing.

"See? Aren't you _tired_ of shouldering _all_ the responsibility for things? Don't you deserve, uh - a _reward_ for all your hard work?" He cups my face in the palm of his long-figured hand. "...I see you, _dragon maiden_ , **struggling** out there on the face of Nirn. I offer only a brief respite - some relief, a slice of _fairness_ that you so crave and hold dear to your heart."

I move back, out of his grasp, purposefully wiping my hand across the place where he had his on my face, as if to scrub any trace of him off my flesh. "...I don't kill animals, if I can help it."

His expression shifts slightly, and I can see the anger there. "And why not? Are humans and dragons not animals, themselves?" He frowns a little. "Hm. That sounded a bit like Hircine. Ew."

"Barbas has done nothing wrong to me personally, and I am _not_ obligated to kill him within the parameters of the _deal we agreed on_."

"What is it that your god says? _'Life's Greatest Illusion is Innocence,'_ I believe. Barbas may have done nothing to you, yet, but he's not really a dog - and he hasn't always been kind."

I feel myself start to feel worn down by this round-about. I glare up at the Prince. "...Tell me, are you going to _force_ me to kill him? - Or are you just wasting my time by doing this?"

The Daedric Prince draws back and blinks at me for a few moments, and then there's a hint of smug pride in his expression. A horrible, handsome thing; A whisper of _'Good girl.'_

 _I'm not scared of him_.

...But really, I am. It was easy to pretend.

He gathers himself for a moment, regaining his composure with very little flourish.

"No, I like dealing in _choices_. I'm a Prince of Deals. It gives an illusion of freedom, you see." He puts a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "...Hm. Well, alright - " He shrugs, "If you don't want to kill him, then I guess I have no _choice_ but to take him back, I suppose. You're no fun at all, are you?" His expression shifted again, irritation clear on his face. "-BUT! I guess that just means I'll have to make my own fun!"

"...Master..." Barbas grumbled, and I had no idea what either of them were trying to get at. I was left in a state of confusion while The Daedric Prince had another outburst.

"No!" Clavicus snapped at him like an impetuous child, "You don't get to tell me what to do!" The Daedric Prince whirled around and moved into my personal space, and I immediately shielded myself from him, bringing my arms up to cover my face. I blush and burn to admit that I hadn't even considered fighting back. "What was it that you wanted? More than that base **Greed** you have, like all dragons **-** is it _power_? That's what it comes down to. The gold, the titles, that manor you dream of - It's all _power_. I could give you power, you know. Easy!"

I felt velvet-gloved hands suddenly pull me back, and heard the distinct sound of a sword being unsheathed. A small, brief, and sharp thought from the jester pierced through my panic - _'That's enough_.'

"What? No, I - " The Daedric Prince's eyes grew wide with mania and madness, mouth stretched too thin in a wild grin to be pantomiming a human-like face so well.

"Yes, yes! I know what you _really_ want! So! **I'll take your soul and put it into the ax** \- _then_ you'll be a part of something powerful. And then I'll get to keep you, one way or another! Your soul may not truly be mine, but I'll _have_ it for a time! _And that's what matters_. Because, you see, I never said _how_ you would acquire your reward - or that you'd be able to _use_ it! It'd be an honor to have your soul as apart of my collection! I may even give you to some fool adventurer like you, someday! And then the Wrath of Sithis would befell _them_ instead of me! It all works out!"

"No!" I angrily shouted back, instantly regretting myself. Barbas stepped in on my behalf, before Clavicus could respond in anger.

"Clavicus! She did everything you asked, now leave her alone!"

The Daedric Prince's face was contorted in anger as he looked upon his servant.

"Do you really think you'd be able to get away with that for long? You know how That One is. It gets real touchy when you step into its territory. I wouldn't suggest it. No amount of amusement is worth that headache, right?"

I glanced at the crew, felt the iron grip of the jester on my shoulders, could hear the faint buzz of Marcurio's drawn enchanted sword. This had escalated quickly, and I was a bit nervous as to where this would go next.

I prayed to Sithis that no one would speak up while the Prince thought things through.

The room was silent, thankfully.

"..." The Prince relaxed after a few long moments, the lines of his body going slack. "...When you're right, you're right, Barbas." He looked down to the ax in his hands, running a hand over the metal. "...Guess that's why I need you." He glanced up at the dog again. "...Besides, with my full power - there's...There's a whole world out there...Just _waiting_ for me! Amusements galore!"

The ax de-materialized from his grasp, then he reached an outstretched hand to the dog, who happily bounded his way towards his master.

"C'mere, you."

"Oh thank you, Master!" The dog turned back briefly, looking up at me. "And thank _you_. I knew I could count on ya."

"Don't bother with the thanks and the praise - Just get _over_ here, you dumb mutt." Clavicus muttered, clearly disappointed with this turn of events.

"One last thing, Clavicus." Barbas continued, trotting up along side his master, "...Give the girl a reward. She deserves it. And a _real_ one! More than just her life - okay? She took _time_ out of it to do this for you, which means she used up some of hers - and you nearly imprisoned her in an ax. It isn't a fair exchange and you know it."

"Well sure, but she didn't _ask_ for anything in return - that was the deal we struck, Barbas." The Prince answered. I threw my hands up defensively.

"Barbas, I don't need anything - I really just - "

" _Pleeeeeeease!_ " The dog urged, looking up hopefully at his master. Clavicus crossed his arms and thought for a moment, then glanced up at his own statue.

"...Right. Okay..." Then he gazed at me, putting a finger to his chin. "... _Dragon-Maiden_ , you _are_ a collector, are you not?"

"-I don't want the ax." I answered flatly.

"-Not - not the _ax_ , you silly girl -" Clavicus responded, slightly irritated, "I'll give you something else." He leaned down to my level, flashing a smile. Like a man offering a sweet to a young child. "Would you like that?"

I considered this option carefully.

It was a rule of thumb, really, not to deny a Daedric Prince something it wanted - especially if the thing he wanted was to reward me, who was I to tell him no?

As another general rule, I never said no to anything of value.

"...What is it, first?" I wagered.

He clicked his tongue and smiled even wider. "Smart girl." Then he leaned up, and gestured to the statue dramatically. "Why, it's my boon! You see that mask up there? You can have it. I think someone of your...Talents and temperament might find a good use for it - or at least a pretty box to put it in. It's better than giving it to some goody-two-shoes, that's for sure."

I looked up at the thing. It was a rather ugly mask over all, but something about it was also quite beautiful. Perhaps it was the detailing; The engraved metal swirls and decorations - or perhaps some sort of daedric enchantment.

"... _The_ Masque of Clavicus Vile?" I had heard whispers of it, read a passage or two about the artifact. It granted the wearer charismatic powers of speechcraft and bartering; No one could resist the wearer when they had it on. That was something I was _definitely_ interested in, despite it's gaudiness.

"Oh, you know of it? What am I saying, of course you do. It's the one and the same! A token of thanks for restoring me to my full power, and giving me my ax back! ...It's almost storybook, you know - A hero and a dog, a fetch quest for a prince." He pretended to sniffle a bit, then shrugged. "It's only right, I suppose."

My hands itched for the mask. "...So, what's the catch?" I wondered out loud.

"No catch." The Prince answered, "You've already given me all that what I wanted."

I glanced at my company, wondering how they fared in hearing this transaction. Marcurio was a bit pale but seemed to be doing fine overall, and Cicero seemed rather bored by the whole thing. I could almost _hear_ him complain about dallying again, he was thinking it so hard.

I turned to Clavicus Vile.

"...I'll take it."


	36. Home To Dawnstar

"I don't think we should take Marcurio to The Night Mother." The Listener mumbles, twirling a strand of ebony curls between her fingertips absently.

It takes a moment for us to re-calibrate, I confess, having this news sprung upon us so suddenly.

Ulalume glances up, blue eyes flashing against their thick frame of lashes- almost in a challenge. The sort that said she 'dared me to speak against her.' The red of her mouth pulls into a frown as I look upon her for a moment more, then finally we give her the sweet relief of a response:

"Excellent. I agree." We turn bodily towards her, giving her our full attention. " **When do we kill him?** " The jester's heart flutters when she blinks up at us, confusion suddenly painting her features grim and crooked.

Ula's voice comes out stilted and hesitant, clearly disturbed by this turn of events."...W-what do you - what do you mean?"

We roll our eyes. "Isn't it obvious? If we aren't taking Zappy to The Night Mother, he's nothing more than a tag-a-long, My Listener. Cicero thinks he's a liability - at the _least_ of it."

She frowns deeper, definitely angry now. "And at the worst of it?" We're silent for a while, and the rational part of me wants to keep my mouth shut - but The Keeper's in control of speaking presently and he can't help himself.

"At the worst, Cicero believes you've made him an accessory in breaking a Tenant. We've already discussed this, however - and the remedy is fairly simple. We kill the infraction, and no secrets are betrayed."

"We're not killing Marcurio." Ula replies, "I hadn't finished my thought yet."

"But we _must_ \- "

"I don't want to take him to Mother - _yet_. That is the difference."

Our mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together by the force. I manage to speak through the clench of it, "What? Why not _now_ , Listener?"

"..." She suddenly loses steam and glances away. "...I've thought about it a lot, and I've meditated on it for several days. It's going to sound _stupid_ , but - **I don't think the time is right yet.** "

"And what does _that_ mean, Listener?" I ask, anger rising like bile in my throat.

"..." Her eyes are on me again, watching the knuckles of the fists at my sides turn white and how our mouth is curled down into a scowl. She seems to brace herself against our fury, which only serves to make me angrier - before she's speaking again. "I don't think we're the right people yet, if you can understand that."

She's barely finished speaking before I'm replying: "-Do you know what Cicero thinks, Listener? He thinks that perhaps you are _stalling_ \- as you've _been_ stalling, and do you want to know why Cicero thinks you're biding your time? I'll tell you: You're avoiding going to The Night Mother because you can't face the truth that you might be _wrong_."

"I'm not killing him." She answers quickly, "And I've not been stalling. I'm _not_ going to ask Mother about him yet, and I'm _not_ going to budge on this decision."

We're flabbergasted, _truly_ \- "You don't _have_ to ask, you know. You can't avoid it. What if Mother just _tells_ you to kill him? What if you go in there tomorrow, and she tells you to kill the wizard? Would you do it?"

I'm relieved she doesn't hesitate - because if she hesitated at all, it'd be hopeless to argue with her any further. "I would do it, of course - ...But I'd pity him; He did nothing wrong."

I scoff at that, but what manages to come out is a strange hybrid of a hysterical laugh and a sigh.

"It's _not_ funny - it's true." She defends.

I finally manage to speak through the jester's forced grin. "You'd grow _bored_ of him, you know. You think he's interesting and fun to have around, but soon you'll grow tired of it - like any other trinket you've collected on your travels. Except this time you can't put him in a box, or shove him in a drawer -" The Laughter chimes in at the end: "- Not unless we cut him up into tiny pieces first!"

She looks me right in the eyes, and I'm terrified that she can see through The Fool - terrified her icy blues are zero'd in right at the core of us, right down to Cicero The Man, gazing into his bare freckled, jealous face - " **Then allow me to grow bored of him, Keeper.** "

The way she speaks the words are no different than her normal tone when we are arguing, but something about the way her mouth framed them sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

 _Marcurio is a toy to her_. He's an object, something of value - but something less real than Cicero is. I can work with that, twist it against him if need be. It brings a smirk to our face.

"I'll even allow you to do the cutting if need be. Is that the answer you seek?"

I don't answer that, because if I tell her the truth - she wins that round."...What infatuates you so about the wizard, Listener?"

She contemplates this for a moment, a softness coming to her features that disgusts us. "...He doesn't speak in riddles and deceit. He can't help but to be honest, and his face betrays lies easily. There is no double-talk, and he wears his heart on his sleeve."

"How fortunate is he, then, to feel as though conversations are not made of eggshells beneath a bare foot." I answer immediately, "And how miserable and stupid he is not to realize it."

"He's refreshing." She mumbles.

We make a dismissive gesture. "As I said, you'd grow bored of him. Why waste time between the two points, when we could kill him _now_? I don't understand why you're so hesitant to just be done with all of it already. The reality of the situation is that he knows to much about us - Ula may not have said the words _'We are in The Dark Brotherhood,'_ \- but as sure as The Void is cold, he knows it."

"I have an idea."

"No, Listener," The Keeper interjects, "Listen to Cicero - You asked him to pull you back when you went too far? _This_ is that moment."

She makes eye contact again, and I feel our body suddenly go weak. Her gaze makes us feel vulnerable, like she could strike us down at any moment - the thought thrills us, makes our heart flutter like a bird trying to escape it's cage.

The Listener is _angry_.

"You're not listening to me, are you? I haven't even finished what I've been trying to say!"

"It doesn't matter!" I manage to squeak out, which causes the jester to laugh without abandon. I try to finish between splayed fingers and the giggles that seem to punctuate every vowel I speak: "No matter what you say, it doesn't change the reality of the situation. Present him now to The Night Mother, or later, but you must accept that there's a possibility she'll tell you to kill him whenever she wants! No matter what you do!"

"And _if_ it comes to that - "

"And _when_ it comes to that, Cicero _will_ enforce Mother's command."

Suddenly, she changes gears. Her expression changes from one of irritation to one of passive amusement. I immediately feel myself tense. The jester begins to play with the loose strings of his velvet gloves, picking at the fingers to avoid more eye contact. The distinct feeling of being manipulated begins to wash over us, though I can't seem to pin-point when it began. We're usually good at avoiding it.

"Look at me." The Listener commands, but her tone is gentle. "Keeper." He can't resist, though I fight against it. He's weaker than the rest of us, bound by duty. It's over as soon as our eyes meet. "I need you to trust me. Just once. Trust that I've thought long and hard about this, and that I am _not_ running from responsibility. I'm trying to take control for once, follow my instincts. I don't know if it's right just yet, and I appreciate your valued input, but even if I'm wrong - it _won't_ bring the fall of everything you hold dear. I'll make sure of it."

The voice that is produced from our throat is small, cracked. "...What if he betrays us?"

Her eyes are still locked with ours. "Then he will die. Without question, without hesitation. We'll pick up our operations and move them elsewhere. I'll make sure to shoulder the blame, and even if I die because of it - The Dark Brotherhood will continue onward, guaranteed."

"That can't happen, My Listener. We're already stretched so thin, and we've only _just_ found you -"

"It won't."

We don't argue about it further, because she's clearly made up her mind. Perhaps I could poke holes instead, drain her desires through straining them.

"...What do you plan to do in the meantime?" She leans back a little.

"We need to bide our time, until I feel like things are right. I've been thinking about embarking on a...Project of sorts."

We're immediately dubious at this prospect; It sounds like a set-up, and the anger comes back as quickly as it left. "...I don't like where this is going."

She continues, almost hastily, as if she could speak faster than the irritation filling up my chest."The three of us worked well as a team, you know, in that cave - "

"Just say what you've been meaning to say." I interject, "You don't have to hype it up, I'm probably going to hate the idea anyways."

She regards me for a moment, frowning. "...Something is brewing on the horizon, Keeper. I can feel it. I want to be able to cash as many favors as possible when the time comes. I want to focus on retrieving all of the Daedric Artifacts we can possibly get our hands on, and I think Marcurio will be a valuable tool in obtaining them."

We're quiet for a moment, she and I and the various other voices that have taken residence in my skull.

Ula waits patiently for us to process what she's said, looking at us expectantly for a response.

"...You want to divide your attention into getting all the Daedric Artifacts you can? Some...Hobby? It sounds selfish, self-serving - like - like - " I wanted to say _Astrid_ but I couldn't bring myself to do it without feeling like we'd start frothing at the mouth.

She interrupts me before I can work myself up to it.

"If Marcurio wasn't part of the equation, would you protest?"

We thought about it for a few moments."...Cicero does not care what you do, or what you have him do, so long as it doesn't interfere with our work and progress as being part of The Dark Brotherhood." She opens her mouth to speak but I'm faster: "However, this whole business with the mage is absolutely within that criteria. Cicero doesn't understand why we can't take Marcurio to The Night Mother right now, and focus on your silly hobby later."

She's angry again, brow furrowing with silent rage. We can feel her veins thrumming with violence at our continued lack of cooperation, and there's a horrible part of us deeply rooted within that is thrilled with the idea of her striking us.

"I already said: It's not the right time - "

"And _I've_ already said, it's only because you're afraid you're _wrong_ \- why draw it out?"

Her cheeks are stained red, frown deepening as she advances towards us. "I'm not wrong, and I'm tired of you instilling doubt within me. I thought you were supposed to be supportive? You've waxed on and on about how you're supposed to keep me happy and safe, and I'm _not_ happy, Keeper!"

"My job as Keeper is to provide wisdom and support, yes, but only for things Cicero deems worthy. I do not like this wizard business!"

"And _I_ say you're undermining me for no reasons other than _personal_."

We gasp, literally - and though it sounds exaggerated, we mean it. "Are you saying Cicero isn't doing his job properly? Is that what you're saying to him? That you think I've been compromised?"

"Yes!"

"Then surely _you_ are compromised as well! Your feelings for the mage have blinded you to the situation at hand! "

She makes a gesture not unlike clutching at a pearl necklace and rears back. It might have been funny any other time, but now we're curious as to why she seems so offended - she's already plainly stated that she feels some semblance of infatuation with him; Or perhaps a kinship or simple desire to befriend him - whichever, I couldn't remember, it didn't matter -

"Your solution to the problem doesn't take into account that I want to _eventually_ take him to The Night Mother. I still plan on questioning him, but I also want to utilize him for the artifacts - "

"Is that what this is _really_ about? Tell me the truth. You just want to draw it out so you can be sure you have him for the artifacts."

"That's not true - it's merely a bonus."

I drag a hand over our face, feeling a headache coming on.

This horrible woman, with her terrible ideas and naive understanding of her own emotions infuriates me like no one else on Nirn can. My palms ache to feel the flesh of her throat being crushed beneath my fingers so that she might be quiet for a while, but that was too drastic of a solution.

She switches gears again, though this time the shift is a bit more subtle.

Ulalume reaches for me, her hands cautiously grabbing one of mine. The contrast between her skin tone and mine is jarring - I always believe her to be rather pale, but Cicero's skin is ghost white while hers looks more olive toned - her fingers are blunt, but feminine whereas mine are spidery and crooked -

Small hands, so delicate, framed by the disfigured monstrosities of mine.

She presses my palm against her chest.

"...Cicero," She mumbles, her voice dropping into an intimate tone - and I swear it's like a spell has been cast over me - "If you don't believe my _words_ , feel my _intent_."

We hesitate for all of one second.

I do as she says and focus, narrowing down first the sensations I can feel physically. The heat of her skin seeps through the velvet fabric of my gloves, the gentle thrum of her heart against my palm.

I can feel determination, there. And the anger - ? No. irritation, really, nothing more. And something else. Not confidence, but a sharp little twang of fear; She's trying to hide it, but I can feel it.

It's oddly comforting, because although she seems _certain_ , it's good to know that she's not committed to being _right_ for once.

"I'm sincere." She speaks softly, eyes heavy lidded, gazing up at me through her lashes - and I feel her warm breath ghost across my face. "Can you feel it?"

This close, I can smell the lingering scent she always seems to carry. Mountain flowers, and soap, Underneath, an undertone that reminds me of almost of a Khajiit sweet-spice. It's a particular sort of musk that reminds me of dragons and fire and smoke -

"...Yes." I mumble, ruined already.

And this horrible, awful, beautiful woman. She _smiles_ at me reassuringly - pressing my palm flat against her skin, the tips of my long fingers grazing her collarbone. "You have to trust me, Keeper." She tells me, the soft melody of her voice compelling me to agree. The warmth of her beneath my hand. The red curl of her mouth. All of it, casting a spell to push me into submission. "...Trust me."

 _Weak weak_ _ **weak**_ _weak weak WEAK weak -_

"Yes, of course, My Listener."

* * *

I'm angry, at myself and at her.

Going through and replaying what transpired in the morning hours while I tended to Mother that night - _(A sacrilege, no doubt; I'm furious at myself for being so distracted while performing the Rites!)_ \- I analyzed what everything meant. What we agreed to.

We were played like a gods-damned _lute_ , **Void take her**!

The expressions, the sweet voice. She lead us through that conversation and we followed the dance to the beat like a puppet without even considering the ramifications.

 _We were outplayed._

Curses! Why hadn't I asked more questions?

What sort of thing did she expect was on the horizon? When had she began feeling this? Was it in relation to The Dark Brotherhood, or was it just a lie: Fabricated to make it seem like her collecting was justified?

She had _never_ spoken once about it before, though she had seemed troubled lately - the woman is _always_ some form of troubled or indecisive, that's just her nature. Perhaps, in guarding myself against her emotions something slipped by? Something I didn't notice?

We tried to think about it, but nothing came up. There'd been lots of arguing between us and The Listener, but there was nothing there that stood out as a sign.

And did that mean that this was somehow my fault? Part of me wanted to blame myself. I was ineffectual in convincing her onto a better path or giving her any sort of guidance, which surely meant I was to shoulder some of the responsibility if things went wrong in the future - which they most assuredly will, if the past taught Cicero anything!

In the silent room of Mother's altar, I sat for a while longer after I'd finished performing The Rites.

Perched between that place of Keeper and myself, where it became most thin. Sometimes I listened into that stinging silence with such fevered anticipation that the quiet itself seemed to start to ring in my ears, like a constant chime.

Sometimes, I wondered if I just couldn't understand Mother in these noises, and she'd been trying to speak with me all along. Failing to interpret her Unholy Words. Other times, I realized it was just fanciful thinking, the sound of blood rushing when no other thing was able to be heard. I'd strain to focus on literally anything else - any other sensation or sound to fill the space instead.

But sometimes it didn't work, and The Silence filled my ears until The Laughter pushed it out.

...What was the common thread? All of this failure - The death, the destruction of the Sanctuaries?

Me.

 _It was me._

Was I to blame? Was it my fault? It was Cicero The Keeper's presence at Falkreath which (rightfully) threatened Astrid into action to betray our secrets to the Penitus Oculatus. It was Cicero The Assassin's words which ultimately left Bruma in ruins, and Cheydinhal - Surely, sentiment and weakness is what made the others sacrifice themselves to save me, who was weak and foolish and young.

Which means perhaps this path Ula walked was because I'd pushed her to do it. To rally against my wisdom for the sake of it rather than because she believed in it. And even if she truly wanted to continue, perhaps her gut feelings were better than ours.

 _ **Maybe we were preventing her from Destiny.**_

...I felt the tears too late when I apologized to Mother. I told her I'd do better, _be better_ \- even if it meant trusting Ulalume, _even if it meant swallowing our pride_.

It couldn't happen again. None of it.

As an organization, The Dark Brotherhood was on its last legs. The outcome of Ula's leadership would make or break the entire group - for better or worse - and The Night Mother knew that, of course. She knew what once was and what is, and what's still to come. Mother trusted the life of her entire Family into the hands of this woman, spoke to her in the midst of trying times, and granted her the power to destroy or breathe new life into it.

And we had trust in The Night Mother to only do what's in our best interest, as she had since the beginning.

And so Cicero did.

* * *

 **Ula's POV:**

The altar room was silent, smelling of incense and fresh flowers. The dull scent of melting wax and preservation oils clung to the cobbled stone of the walls, lingering in my lungs for a few moments with each and every quiet breath.

I stood in front of The Night Mother's coffin, too many thoughts jumbled in my mind to reach out to her in prayer just yet. I tried to calm down, center myself - clear my head, but there was so much swimming in my brain that it felt like my head might explode.

I kneeled in front of her coffin in the dim light of the room, careful not to disturb the expertly arranged flowers and candles. I mediated for a moment on that, marveling at the precision of each angle of stem and height of waxen light.

There were so many unspoken rules, so many things to be done _just right_. The dexterity and speed one must have to be Keeper must be impressive, but the attention to detail was clearly the more important skill of value. Everything was staged, fit for a painting.

The Rites were kept in a tome that only Keepers were given access to. Cicero had once told me this - long ago, when we were still living in Falkreath Sanctuary. Only Keepers knew the knowledge to perform the Rites, and only they knew such a form of intimacy between our Mother and her Child - second only to The Listener, who heard her voice directly. Usually, no one ever even saw her corpse.

I never touched her and almost never opened her coffin. When I had been forced to, so long ago - before I was named Listener: It felt wrong, and also terribly gross - though Cicero never seemed to speak of it in such a way. I was always curious as to his feelings on the matter, but I worried then and now he'd snap at me for asking.

There had been some of our now deceased brothers and sisters who joked about necrophilia, though I never saw his reverence and eagerness for his job to be one seated in a perverted sort of lust. It was the _intimacy_ \- the importance of the job itself. The Rites were what allowed her conduit to stay preserved so she could speak - without The Keeper, there was no kept corpse; And with no corpse, there was no way to speak to The Listener.

In older times, it was said she often projected herself to The Listener, sometimes in their dreams; sometimes as a figure, but most often as her voice. Her power is linked to belief, as all beings are - and without her conduit, there was nothing to worship.

Of course, I knew this to be true. She often spoke to me in dreams and spoke directly into my head when I prayed at her altar. Though she never made herself a form in my dreams, and I suspected it's because our numbers are few and our faithful are fewer.

I often wondered if the reason Cicero liked being Keeper is because it's something meticulous, repetitive. He knows what to do, step by step. Privy to something no one else is. Repetitive tasks are often soothing, and calming I've found.

Maybe it makes everything quiet, inside. Being in her presence certainly seems to help me whenever I'm troubled.

Being close to The Night Mother made me feel warm and safe, like nothing could go wrong - but it also tended to form a cold pit in my stomach.

No one had asked me for anything my whole life - I had never had expectations put upon me by others. Here, I had responsibilities and a permanent role to play at all times. I had to be a leader, and I couldn't make mistakes without someone criticizing me.

It was...Terrifying, and it constantly moved me into a state of perpetual, crippling fear.

There really was no one else I could talk to about it other than Cicero, but he always seemed disappointed. Those expectations, again - and I was always falling incredibly short.

I had felt lost for a long time, wandering from thing to thing, trying to survive. The gutters of Bravil, the ruins of Cheydinal, the safe-houses of The Thieves Guild in the Imperial City and then Riften - I did not expect when the jester and I met on that road with the broken wagon wheel that it would lead me to here.

And the path I walked? I wasn't sure where it lead, either.

I constantly marched toward Death, keeping in time with the drum of reality, slow and steady. That was the ultimate destination, but what places would I stop by in the meantime? Where did I go next?

I breathed in slowly, filling my lungs to the brim, then let out the air slowly in a soft sigh. Four more times I did this, trying to calm the anxiety rising in my chest.

It was best not to dwell _too_ much.

I told Cicero and myself that I wouldn't ask about the wizard, and I intended on keeping my own promises. I was certain of my plan of action, and I was almost certain it was the right thing to do - barring a few details.

But there was still so much left that I was not so clear about, and I didn't know how to ask about it all.

So I tried my best.

"...Mother." I whispered into the darkened room, upturning my gaze into the metal final resting place of The Unholy Matron.

I waited for a few moments before trying again.

"Mother."

Silence.

I gripped the loose fabric of my dress at my bent knees, willing myself to be patient.

Once more: "...Mother?"

Nothing.

Panic began to move through me. She'd never failed to answer me before - not in my recent memory, anyways. Not unless she was angry with me. Had I angered her? Was this a sign I was not on the right path, after all?

"...Mother, what do I do?" I asked, audibly upset and distraught with this turn of events.

And The Night Mother said _nothing_.

I bowed my head and looked at my white-knuckled fists resting on my thighs, fabric bunched between my fingers. The black curtain of my hair made the room darker as I tried to rationalize what was happening, soothe the cacophony of thoughts racing in my mind.

Without looking up, I pressed my fingers to the ice-cold metal of the coffin, willing her to answer me. "...Please." I mumbled, fingertips running along a groove.

Nothing but silence and scents to keep me company.

I dropped my hand as I felt tears began to prick against my eyes. The hot sting of rejection quickly moved from disappointment to anger.

I didn't understand, and it upset me. How was I supposed to guide us if Mother said nothing?

I left the room, wiping my blurry eyes before the tears had a chance to meet my cheeks.

* * *

"Silus Vesuius - how many times have I told you not to bother my customers?" The innkeep snapped suddenly upon seeing a dark haired imperial man in strange red robes enter.

"I won't be long Thoring, I promise."

I was a little too busy eating breakfast and contemplating my next moves in life to pay attention to the exchange any longer, only having my interest peaked when the man with the red robes sat across from Marcurio and I.

"Hello, travelers! Welcome to Dawnstar. I suspect you're either leaving soon, or just arrived?"

I had every intention of ignoring the man who had so rudely interrupted my eating when suddenly Marcurio spoke up and answered "Leaving this morning, actually - though we're not quite sure where we're headed just yet."

The man's face lit up. "In that case, why not stop by the museum in town? I'm it's curator, and today is the opening day! We have many artifacts for viewing that are one of a kind." The man reached into the front of his robe and pulled out a few handmaid flyers and pamphlets. "We're focused on the history of The Mythic Dawn Cult, and - "

"Hold on." Marcurio held up his hand. "The Mythic Dawn Cult? Isn't that the Daedra worshiping group who started the Oblivion Crisis, killed the last Septim emperor, and nearly ended the world as we know it?"

"The very same!" The man excitedly answered, "And it was one of my forefathers who did it!"

"And what does your museum offer that countless books and historical accounts do not?"

The other imperial man faltered slightly, the grin becoming more of a simple smile. "Well, as I said, we have one of a kind artifacts. You see, many of the cults religious objects and tomes were destroyed either during or shortly after the Crisis, either by the battles or by ashamed family members. However, I have access to a whole collection of these sorts of things, just waiting to be viewed and enjoyed."

Marcurio's eyes lit up at this prospect, and I felt like rolling my eyes. I had no interest in one-of-a-kind valuable artifacts that held no power. Everyone knows you can't sell them - not for a decent price, anyhow, and few touched sales like that in the first place due to the nature of the priceless object possibly being coveted by other cut-throat collectors.

"...Actually, I approached you for another reason, besides telling about the opening day of my museum. I noticed you have quite the sword strapped to you, sir, and was wondering if you lot are actually mercenaries or swords-for-hire of some kind?"

My ears perked up at this, and I found it within myself to actually make eye-contact with the man since he so rudely interrupted my breakfast with his spiel. "What sort of job are you offering?" I asked, which clearly surprised the wizard - as if I'd catch a whiff of gold and _refuse_ to follow the scent.

Silus turned to me, clearly surprised that I had been listening at all. "Oh! Well, there's this - ' _Ceremonial Dagger'_ that I've been meaning to get my hands on, but the pieces were scattered among the Holds, which was done by a now deceased family member of mine's wishes. It's the perfect final addition to the museum; I'd love if you could retrieve these pieces from their keepers. It's really valuable and one of a kind, and I know of a special... _Blacksmith_ I could send it to who could repair it - if only I had all the pieces."

"Details." I muttered, pushing away my breakfast.

This was far more intriguing than some dusty house full of old things I couldn't even sell or use.


End file.
